CIHM 
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ICMH 

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microfiches 
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Canadian  Instrtite  for  Historical  Microreproouotions  /  Institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


I 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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checked  belov/. 


Q 


D 
D 
D 


n 


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I      I    Covers  damaged  / 


Couverture  endommagee 


□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
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0    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

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interieure. 

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Additional  comments  / 
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L'Institut  a  microfilme  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
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D 


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Pages  decolorees,  tachetees  ou  piquees 

Pages  detached  /  Pages  detachees 

L/     Showthrough/Tansparence 

I      I    Quality  of  print  varies  / 


D 

D 


D 


Qualite  inegale  de  I'impression 

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Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

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partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
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obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
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possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
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filmees  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


n 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below  / 

Ce  document  est  lilme  au  U  iix  de  reduction  indique  ci-dessous. 


lOX 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

J 

12x 


16x 


20x 


24x 


28x 


32x 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 


L'cxemplaire  film^  fut  reproduit  grace  i  la 
gin^rosit^  de: 


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The  images  appearing  hare  are  the  best  quality 
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Les  images  suivantes  ont  iti  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nertet*  de  I'exemplaire  film*,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  thn  ^ront  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  ^     rintad  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cov->'  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  a -a  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  Illustrated  Impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
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par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminarjt  soit  par  la 
derni^re  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impresslon  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  la  cas.  Tous  les  zutres  exemplaires 
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premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impresslon  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derni^re  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
darniAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  —*■  signifie  "A  SUIVRE ",  le 
symbola  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  a: 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
metiiod: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  etre 
film^s  i  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film*  A  partir 
de  Tangle  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m*thode. 


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AT  THE  SHRINE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

By 

GEORGE  HERBERT  CLARKE 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS     -     -     -     CINCINNATI 


«CT— 1^ 


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C  O  PYR  I  G  H  T.     19  14. 
GEORGE  HERBERT  CLARKE 

Mr- 

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NOTE 

The  poems  contained  in  this  volume  were  written, 
for  the  most  part,  during  the  past  ten  years. 

Thanhs  are  due  to  the  editors  of  the  following 
magazines  for  their  kindness  in  permitting  the  repub- 
lication of  poems  included  here  that  appeared  origi- 
nally in  their  columns :  The  English  Review,  The  In- 
dependent, The  Forum,  The  Bookman.  The  Outlook. 
Lippincott's  Magazine,  The  New  England  Magazine, 
and  The  Canadian  Magazine. 

a  H.  c. 

Knoxville,   Tennessee, 
May.  1914. 


CONTENTS 

1r 


I. 

To  u  Friend,  --------  ...1) 

Bounty.    --------....  14 

"A  Life  Beyond?" -15 

Deu8  Inenarrabilis,    ------....  |a 

The  Last  Desire,   ------..,,.17 

The  Dream  of  Dreams,      -----,,..  ig 

The  Mother. |g 

A  Priest  of  Humanity,        ------..,  20 

The  Chess-PIayer,  -  -  .  -  .         ,  .         .  .  -21 

Childwist,  ---------..  22 

Das  Ewig-Weibliche, ,..23 

Faces,        ---------...  24 

The  Heretic.  -----------25 

The  Chief  Witness.    -  - 26 

The  Silent  Sisters  of  the  Poor. 27 

Petri  Interrogatio,     ------,...  28 

"Wanga  Nzambi,  Wanga>"  ------..,29 

Day's  End  in  Durham,      -----....  31 

A  Voice  to  the  Dying,  ----.-..,.33 

On  a  Friend's  Death,  ------..,  35 

At  the  Shrine,        -------.,._•>« 

"Yonder  He  Lies,"    ------.,,.  4Q 

A  Winter  Twilight, 42 

Quo  Abeo  ? 44 

Antinomy,     -  -  ------         .._4A 

On  My  Dog's  Death, 47 

The  American  Black,     -------..-50 

La  Pucelle  de  Vercheres,   ----.-...  52 

5 


II. 

Serenade,      ------..,,  f.\ 

The  Perfect  Comrade.        ------...  (.7 

Renunciation,        -------...  a-i 

The  Master- Wooer, r. 

To  an  Unnamed  Lady,           ----....  ^.i; 

The  Two  Flowers,     -----...  (^ 

The  Return,           --------..  f.7 

Sea-Secrets,       -         -          -         .          .  ^o 

~                                                                                              ■          "          -          -          -  DO 

^"■yt- -         -         -  69 

To  Laure,           --------..  70 

Delia  and  I,            ------..  71 

The  Wine  of  Love,    -----....  71 

Second  Thoughts, y, 

"Until  Death  Us  Do  Part."       -          -------  75 

Love's  Similitudes,         -------.  7/: 

To  a  Young  Girl, yy 

Waiting, yg 

At  Parting. .          _  gj 

The  Novice,            ---...___  „, 

A  Girl's  Complaint  to  Her  Heart. ge 

A  Sonnet  of  Spousal, or 

Amor  Sempitemus,   ------..  07 

Paura  Non  ^  Nella  Carita,   -          -          - go 

The  Firefly, „q 

The  Transfigurer,            --- oq 

"The  Moon,  and  My  Love,  and  I." oi 

Her  Heart  Breaks  Silr ice.     ----..._  n-i 

"She  is  not  Dead." oc 

III. 

"O  Earth,  What  Changes!  " gq 

The  Elarthquake,       -------..  ifvi 

An  Old  Master.     ■---...  mi 

•    '^  i-"^". 102 

A  Lake  Sunrise.     -----....  in-i 

Daybreak, \^ 

6 


Les  Camarades  En  Voyage, 

To  Night. 

A  Summer  Night, 

Ariel's  Revenge, 

The  Aeronaut,       -         -         . 

A  Settler's  Grave, 

The  Eyes  of  the  East,  - 

A  Forest  Graveyard, 

Song  of  the  Evening  Cloud, 

"Brown  Fellow" 

"The  Rain  It  Raineth," 
Outward  Bound, 
The  Last  Lullaby, 
The  God  of  the  Gulls, 
A  Night  on  the  St.  Lawrence, 
God's  Eyes,       -         -         - 
To  a  Butterfly,      -  -         . 

Lyrics  of  the  Rail,     - 

The  Scorned  Town 
The  Canyon 
The  Sleeping-Car 
Tempest-Tost, 


105 

106 

107 

108 

109 

110 

III 

112 

113 

114 

il5 

116 

117 

118 

120 

122 

124 

126 


128 


IV. 


Hamlet,         -         -         .         . 
A  Grace  Before  Shakespeare, 
To  Shakespeare's  Mother,     - 
To  a  Class  in  Shakes|>eare, 
To  Harriet  Shelley, 
To  John  Keats, 
To  George  Borrow. 
Pippa  and  Her  Flowers,    - 
"Storm  Still,"        -         .         . 
To  the  Friendliest  of  Poets, 
To  My  Lord  Verulam, 
To  Master  Henry  Fielding, 
To  Miss  Jane  Austen.  - 


133 

134 

135 

136 

137 

138 

139 

140 

141 

142 

143 

144 

145 


i 


- ;  S  V-  ^-*C-^  *^'^  r- .  * 


.  ,  c-     i,-;'  »»'5-,ii-'-v^-..'. 


AT 

THE 

SHRINE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


-7V-. 


^:J^J^ 


■Z'hS. 


TO  A  FRIEND 

"T^HRO^  JGH  drenching  deeps  a  ship  is  saiUng, 
■■•      A  battered,  broken  journeyer; 
And  yet  she  keeps  her  course  unfaiUng, — 
A  harbour  waits  for  her. 

Hope  of  that  port  her  way  doth  order, 

How  far  soever  on  the  sea; 
Ah,  so  thy  heart,  beyond  the  Border, 

Beckons  and  governs  me! 


13 


BOUNTY 

A  CHILD  and  a  rose, 
**     A  rose  and  a  child; 

In  the  heart  of  the  one  repose, 
And  joy  in  the  heart  of  the  other! 

A  child  and  a  friend, 

And  the  rose  changes  hands; 
In  the  heart  of  the  man  godsend: 

Child,  rose  and  white  soul  of  his  mother! 


14 


itv 


"A  LIFE  BEYOND?" 

A  LIFE  beyond?    Not  mine  the  mournful  cry! 
•**  O  Hidden  One,  what  holier  mystery? — 

Every  morning  we  are  born :   every  night  we  die. 


15 


ih  

ll 


DEUS  INENARRABILIS 

DID  ever*  author  pen  a  book 
That  all  his  spirit's  fibre  took? — 
The  Word  of  God  was  never  writ 
That  men  might  make  a  Book  of  it. 


16 


THE  LAST  DESIRE 

7R0M  dreamless  nights  to  wake  to  mockinc;  morrows, 
To  make  toward  the  surface  from  the  Deep, 

For  silence  to  put  on  old  sins  and  sorrows, — 
Unknown  One,  nay!  let  me  forever  sleep! 

Secret,  sufficient,  all-subduing  Sleep, — 

In  thine  embrace  eternal  to  be  lying. 
The  while  thine  ancient  eyes  their  vigil  keep, — 

How  blest  a  thing  to  die,  if  this  be  dying! 


! 


17 


THE  DREAM  OF  DREAMS 

"That  the  life  of  man  is  but  a  dream,  many  a  mrtn  has  surmised  here- 
tofore:   and   I,    too,  um  everywhere  pursued   by   this  feeling."      Cjoethe:    The 

Siirrous  of  \i'i  rl/n  r. 

LJOWEVER  real  it  seem. 
*  *     Sleeping  we  or  waking. 

Giving  we  or  taking, 

True,  or  all-forsaking, — 
L;fe  is  a  dream,  a  dream! 

Shineth  there  a  gleam 

That  gives  it  sudden  sweetness, 
Sadly  we  feel  its  fleetness. 
Fading  to  incompleteness; — 

Life  is  a  dream,  a  dream! 

Ah !  when  we  would  redeem 
April  from  drear  December. 
Fresh  fire  from  waning  ember, 
Why  must  we  Ihcn  remember 

Life  is  a  dream,  a  dream? 


18 


I 


THE  MOTHER 

(She  speaks,  sitting  up  in  bed:) 

IT  ARK.  hark! 

^  '■  Did  you  not  hear  a  sound  from  out  the  Dark— 

A  little,  broken,  uncontented  cry? 

(Hush,  darling,  I  am  nigh!) 

The  quick,  bewildered  walking  mark  you  not. 
The  hands  beseeching, 

The  white  face  stained  with  tears,  the  curls  that 
clot 
The  tiny  brow,  the  mother-want  past  speeching? 

Oh,  can  you  see  my  baby  frir^htened  there. 

And  can  you  bear 

To  keep  me  from  her?     (Sweetheart,  wait  for  mother!) 

How  may  she  find  the  way.  uncomforted? 

And  how  shall  comfort  come  from  any  other 

Save  me  alone?    The  people  there  are  dead! 


19 


o 


A  PRIEST  OF  HUMANITY 

F  SORROWS  bitter-strange  is  wove  his  fate: 

A  mother  weeping  for  her  infant  dead; 

A  father  crying  curses  on  the  head 
Of  his  wild  son  thrust  forth  degenerate; 
The  love  that  flamed,  and  faded  to  dull  hate, 

Of  a  wed  pair  that  fain  would  be  unwed ; 

A  mind  destroyed  by  the  dark  things  it  said; — 
With  these  old  woes  his  life  is  penetrate. 

Yet  for  each  alien  anguish  does  he  mourn, — 
A  sad  compassion  in  his  deepening  eyes, — 
Counsels,  consoles,  reveals  "the  better  part;' 
How  great  soever  be  the  burden  borne, 
(Ah!  this  the  secret  of  his  ministries) 

More  bitter  is  the  grief  that  eats  his  heart! 


20 


I 


THE  CHESS-PLAYER 

PLAYED  at  chess  with  Lasker,  but  to  lose. 
Beaten  from  the  beginning;  yet  the  game 
Wavered  awhile  in  seeming,  and  no  shame 

Possessed  me.     It  was  mine  to  check  and  choose, 

To  marshal,  menace,  try  this  sudden  ruse 
And  that  side-ambuscade,  with  hope  aflame 
Hailed  to  be  as  he  that  overcame. 

The  laurel  once  at  least  not  to  refuse. 


Vainly!    He  sat  before  me  patient,  still, 

His  dark  eye  searching  out  each  secret  plot. 

And  by  his  brooding,  stern-compelling  will 

The  game  was  guided,  though  I  knew  it  not; — 

Yet  find  I  strength  in  failure  as  'n  strife: 

As  I  played  Lasker,  so  I  challenge  Life! 


m 


21 


R 


CHILDWIST 

APT  dreamer,  what  revealments  dost  thou  see? 
We  that  are  blinded  with  the  vagrant  dust 
Of  our  long  way,  and  stifled  by  each  gust 

That  stills  the  spirit  when  it  moves  too  free — 

So  tired  we  are  we  turn  ourselves  to  thee 

Whose  eyes  are  wide  with  wonder,  and  whose  trust 
Feels  Something,  Somewhere,  that  is  W  nd  and  just, 

Ancient  and  vast  in  its  Eternity. 

Ah,  vain!    Youth's  vision  only  youth  may  learn; 
Thou,  too,  dear  maiden,  must  arise  and  seem 
A  destined  path  to  tread,  the  while  thine  eyes 
Gaze  troubled,  and  the  hardlier  discern 

The  glory  dimmed  and  gone; — O  then  thy  dream 
Still  silent  cherish  till  the  daylight  dies! 


22 


DAS  EWIG-wEIBLICHE 


26? 


36  trust 
id  just, 


:arn ; 
em 

6  6y6S 

dream 
I 


I     T  AST  night  I  saw  thee  gHding  to  my  bed 
^    ■*— '     So  gently,  mother,  to  caress  my  brow 

With  all  the  old  compassion, — "Darling,  now 
Is  nothing  wrong.    Sleep,  and  be  comforted!" 
And  I  laid  hold  upon  thine  hand,  and  pled 

Thou  wouldst   not   leave   me,    till — I    know  not 

how — 
Buried  in  peace  I  slept,  the  while  that  thou 
Wert  there  beside  me,  not  among  the  dead. 

I  woke  and  found  thee  vanished,  yet  I  feel 
A  sense  that  will  not  vanish  of  a  hand 

Still  clasping  mine,  and  on  my  lips  the  seal 
Of  a  high  matter,  hard  to  understand, — 

A  touch,  a  kiss,  a  whisper'd  word  to  me: 

"Mother,  and  wife,  and  sister, — one  in  three!" 


23 


FACES 

THERE  are  two  pictures  hanging  on  my  wall: 
One  is  the  Woman  of  Dagnan-Bouveret — 
Mary  Madonna,  with  sad,  dark  eyes  that  say 
Hidden  and  holy  things,  her  peasant  shawl 
Folding  her  babe  and  breast;   the  other,  call 

"My  Mother  in  Old  Age,"  gracious  and  gray,— 
Hers  is  a  lonely  sleeping,  long  leagues  away, 
Nor  can  she  hear  her  son's  prayers  passional. 

But  sometimes  the  two  f-.      .  dim  and  blur, 

The  darks  and  deeps  are  mingled,  the  lights  turn 
Trembling  toward  one  another,  and  I  see 
Then,  as  with  subtler  vision,  the  eyes  of  her. 
My  mother,  from  the  Virgin's  aureole  yearn. 
And  Mary  Maiden  gray  the  mother  of  me! 


24 


11 


THE  HERETIC 


H 


E  GIVES  to  death  world-prejudice.    World-woe 
Therefore  upon  its  witless  gods  is  crying 
Never  to  spare,  nor  suffer  more  the  lying 

Counsels,  contentions  of  this  human  foe: 

It  is  not  right  that  he  should  teach  them  so. 
That  worship  of  the  runes  is  reason  dying, 
That  for  the  spirit  there  is  satisfying 

Not  in  the  formal  Yea,  but  faithful  No. 

Aroused,  those  apathetic  gods  would  hearken 
What  time  they  shook  the  stupor  of  the  years. 

And,  making  human  lovelight  droop  and  darken. 
Crush  out  the  rebel  in  a  night  of  fears — 

Not  now,  not  now!    Nay — they  are  gone  abroad 

To  seek  a  truce  of  heaven  with  heaven's  God. 


25 


li 


H 


THE  CHIEF  WITNESS 

ER  that  hath  hid  a  babe  beneath  her  breast 
Through  the  long,  secret  days  and  deejiening 

nights, 
Kindling  with  happy  hopes  and  dear  delights, 

Or  brooding  silent  v/ith  a  dim  unrest. — 

Ask  her,  the  Mother,  what  is  for  women  best. — 
The  chase  of  phantom  freedom,  mechanic  "rights," 
Sharing  with  fevered  face  the  cruder  fights, 

Or  her  high  part  in  the  Eternal  Quest? 

She  only  of  her  sex  can  say,  for  she 

Alone  is  Woman  whose  word  is  of  a  son : 
"In  the  great  Heart-of-Things  I  feel  a  plan 
Encompassing  the  mystery  of  me: 

I  mother  all  mankind  in  mothering  one, — 

Through  me  the  race  aspires  from  man  to  Man !" 


26 


iK 


If 


-J 


THE  SILENT  SISTERS  OF  THE  POOR 

MEEKLY,  with  folded  hands  and  patient  brows. 
Come  two  from  out  the  ivy-clustered  door; 
A  cross  is  on  the  altar  of  their  House, — 
It  hushed  their  voices  while  it  heard  their  vows; 
Ay  me,  -the  Silent  Sisters  of  the  Poor! 

The  cross  upon  the  altar  is  of  gold. 

And  coldly  gleams  in  the  chill  chapel  air; — 
Is  it  for  this  their  bosoms  are  so  cold, 
Nor  beat  as  they  were  wont  to  beat  of  old? — 
Or  is  a  wintry  cross  enfixed  there  .- 

The  sun  is  dimly  drooping  down  the  west 

The  ancient  House  against  its  glory  stands 
Sombre  and  gaunt  and  dark;   and  darkly  drest. 
Two  figures  seem  to  fade  within  its  Dreast, 
Meekly,  with  patient  brows  and  folded  hands. 


27 


PETRI  INTERROGATIO 

(After  Dante  Gabriel  Rourtth 

DILIGIS  Me,  Simon  Joannis?' 
'Etiam,  Domine," 
Petrus  ait,  "Tu  scis  quia 
Amo  Te.  " 


'Pasce  agnos, 

Pasce,"  dicit, 
'Agnos  Meos!" 

'Diligis  Me,  Simon  Joannis? 

Diligis  MeV 
'Immo  vero;  Tu  scio  quia 

Amo  Te." 

'Pasce  agnos, 

Pasce,"  dicit, 
'Agnos  Meos!" 

'Amas  Me,  Simon  Joannis? 

Amas  Me?" 
Tristi  sane  corde  Petrus: 

"O  Domine, 
Omnia  Tu  nosti;  certe 

Amo  Te." 

"Pasce  oves, 

Pasce,"  dicit, 
"Pecudes!" 
28 


(h 


•WANGA  NZAMBI.  WANGA?" 


(It  19  the  custoni  of  the  Bakongo  natives  to  end  a  speech  by  saying 
"Wanga,"  a  word  signifying:  "Do  you  understand?" 

A  little  African  boy,  brought  up  in  the  Mission,  prayed  that  he  might 
always  have  plenty  to  eat,  that  he  might  never  have  any  work  to  do,  that 
he  might  have  fine  clothes  to  wear,  and  that  when  he  grew  up  he  might  at- 
tain the  social  .standing  of  the  white  man.  Then  said  he  at  the  end  of  his 
heartspoken  prayer:  "Wanga  Nzambi.  Wanga  ?"  meaning;  "Do  you  under- 
stand, God, — Do  you  understand?" — Herl^ert  Ward:  ,4    Voice  from  the  Congo.) 


/^  WARM  Upleaping,  swift  Flame-Flowing, 
''  ^^      That  blesseth  and  banneth  the  eager  hand. 
Driving  the  Dark,  yet  into  Darkness  going, — 
Lord  Fire,  dost  understand? 

O  radiant  Lighter  of  the  Life  of  Day, 
Regally  coursing  it  along  the  sky, — 

Sun-God,  to  Thee  we  lift  our  hearts  and  pray; 
O  hear  us,  or  we  die! 


I 


Great  Father  Zeus,  mighty  among  the  mighty. 
Stern  of  Thy  thought,  severe  of  Thy  command,- 

Tyrant  of  Cronos,  Hera,  Aphrodite, — 
Hearken,  and  understand! 


Hakeem!  th.  '^  vanished  in  the  sunset  glory. 
When  to  Thy  faithful  shalt  Thou  reappear? 

Long  have  we  brooded  Thy  celestial  story, 
Waited  Thee  many  a  year. 

29 


IS^ 


Mary,  immaculate,  humanity's  one  Mother,— 
Thou  in  the  Presence  that  dost  intercede,— 

Minister  Thou  (nor  have  we  any  other) 
To  our  so  bitter  need! 

Centre  of  Cosmos,  what  Thou  art  who  knoweth? 

Whether  the  worlds  and  we  are  nobly  planned, 
Or  whether  ebbing  tide  and  tide  that  floweth 
Eterne  shall  change,  and  Being  never  groweth.— 

O  who  may  understands 


30 


DAY'S  END  IN  DURHAM 

IN  the  Abbey  at  Durham, 
^  With  its  great  stony  Silence. 
Builded  of  silences, 
I  bowed  me  and  knelt. 


After  a  long  time 
I  prayed  to  the  Silence 
To  enter  my  spirit. 
And  give  me  to  know. 

And  the  dim-sweeping  arches 
And  solemn  spaces, 
Deepening,  darkening. 
Regarded  the  mortal. 
The  humble  human. 
Kneeling  there,  praying. 

At  last  spake  the  Silence, 
Silently,  after  its  wont: 

"We  columns  and  cloisters 
Are  very  ancient ; 
The  tale  of  our  years 
Is  Hearing  a  thousand; 
Once  it  resounded — 
Our  vast-flung  vaulting — 
With  glory  and  passion 

31 


3'    tl 


To  the  chants  of  our  masters, 
Your  fathers  long  vanished; 
Now  we  are  dreaming 
Of  memories  only: 
Alike  they  and  we 
Are  sinking  to  ruin. 
Slowly  to  death. 
Reluctant  or  willing. 
Must  all  things  yield  them." 


And  the  darkness  deepened. 


"Slowly  to  death," 

Were  the  words  re-echoed, 

"Must  all  things  yield  them. 


An'^  v.\'e  I  krx-!^  there. 
Unfolded  a  vision: 
Before  me  was  tending 
The  Earth  in  her  orbit, — 
An  old  pulsing  planet. 
Blind  beating  the  void; — 
And  out  of  her  bosom. 
With  castles  and  palaces. 
Prisons  and  temples. 
Crumbling  upon  it. 
There  came  the  old  sorrow: 
"Slowly  to  death 
Must  all  things  yield  them." 

32 


I  ) 


ii)l 


"Customs  and  continents, 
The  secret-souled  ocean. 
Wars  and  war's  rumours. 
Men's  poetry  and  music. 
Their  quarrelling  systems. 
Their  sure  revelations 
Of  the  Made  and  the  Maker, 
The  counters  they  trade  in. 
Their  greeds  ard  red  rivalries, 
Brave  bursts  of  brotherhood. 
Kindliest  ministries. 
Wooings  and  marryings, 
Their  ventures  victorious. 
Their  gloomy  forebodings, — 
All  shall  decay  and  pass 
Down  to  oblivion. 
With  me,  their  old  Mother, 
The  Ruin  they  dwell  on. 

"AM  ^V\ey  are.  all  they  have, 

All  they  think  or  imagine. 

Can  little  avail  them 

In  the  blind  end  of  being; — 

They  are  midges  that  hover 

By  my  withering  bosom, 

And  1  but  a  midge 

On  the  breast  of  Eternity! 


"On  the  breast  of  Eternity  I" 
She  spake,  and  was  silent. 
Save  for  the  sudden 

33 


Tremor  that  shook  her: 
"Ah!  what  is  Eternity? 
It,  too,  a  Ruin?" 


T 


In  the  Abbey  at  Durham, 
With  its  great  stony  Silence, 
Builded  of  silences, 
I  wondered,  and  woke. 


34 


iii> 


u 


A  VOICE  TO  THE  DYING 

NKNOWN  and  uncounted  the  years  thou  hadst 

Iain  in  my  bosom 
Ere  thou  wast  born, — 
Thou,  and  the  wife  thou  hast  loved,  the  dog  thou 

hast  fondled. 
The  trees  and  the  grasses  by  which  thou  hast  lived; 
A  dim,  ageless  travail  brought  ye  all  forth. 
And  quiet  hath  been  your  mothering. 

A  quiet  mothering, — 
Yet  have  mine  eyes  not  ceased  from  beholdmg  thee, 
Thee  and  all  thy  ways,  —  thine  eager  pride,  and  thy 

powers 
That  failed  thee,  thy  yeas  and  nays  and  silences. 
Thy  reckoned  gains,  thy  mad  revolts,  thy  crowding 

sorrows. 
Confessions  sad; — all  these  thy  mother's  eyes  have 

seen. 

Come  home, — 
Thou  who  hast  never  been  far  from  me,  for  all  thy 

thinking. 
Thy  little  human  tragedy — come  home,  dear  child! 
Beneath  my  breast  come  slumber  once  again, 
Peradventure  again  to  be  born,  again  to  die. 
But  never  to  be  parted  from  her  that  bids  thee  come! 


W 


I 


m 


35 


ON  A  FRIEND'S  DEATH 

TKZE  thought  that  Death  was  hard  and  harsh,  a  Doomcr  of 
y  y         dread  power; — 

Ah  no !  his  wings  wave  gently  as  the  petals  of  a  flower. 

What  hath  he  done?     Why  have  we  watched  and 

wcpO 
He  touched  our  friend's  tired  eyeUds,  and  he  slept. 

What  hath  he  taken?    Not  the  kindly  smile, 
The  sterling  worth,  the  wisdom  without  guile. 

How  hath  he  wronged  us?    Still  we  have  our  friend; 
For  love  and  trust  there  cannot  be  an  end. 

Who  mourneth  overmuch,  and  murmureth? 
The  Soul  that  made  shall  care  for  him  in  death. 

The  mortal  in  him  slept,  th'  immortal  changed; 
Over  the  hills  of  heaven  he  hath  ranged, — 

A  boundless  country,  and  a  beautiful; 

And  Death  its  usher  is  and  sentinel. 

Who  seals  the  eyes  of  them  he  loveth  well 

(And  all  he  loveth  well!), 

Till  they  have  journeyed  whither  they  may  not 
tell,— 
A  boundless  country  and  a  beautiful ! 

36 


liii 


Ah,  what  their  secret?    Why  does  none  return? 
Their  Mentor  Death  hath  won  them,  long  they 
learn. 

Gladly  they  wander  with  him  far  and  high; — 
Death  's  Love's  disguise  to  all  of  them  that  die. 

We  thought  that  Death  was  hard  and  harsh,  a  Doomer  of  dread 

power; — 
Ah  no !  his  wings  wave  gently  as  the  petals  of  a  flower. 


37 


AT  THE  SHRINE 

JX/TARY,  humanity's  Woman,  immaculate  Mother. 
-^'■^  Is  it  Thou,  Thou  alone,  that  art  pure,  and  never  another  ? 

For  the  babe  at  my  breast  many  deaths  did  my  body 

endure: 
The    girl    died,   the    virgin, — yea,   all    that    the    Past 

counted  pure. 

Then  the  deepest  last  dying,    the  shudder  so  woeful 

and  wild, 
The  smothering  darkness      .      .      .      the  pitiful  cry  of 

the  child! 

O   Mary,  the    bliss    that   came   after, — the   rapture  of 

bliss, — 
How    I    would    laugh    him   to  laughter,   and  how  we 

would  kiss! 

How  I  would  clasp  him  in  terror  when  trouble  would 

linger  and  stay! 
Trouble?  for  any  but  him,   my   masterful  man-child 

alway. 

How  he  would  lie  in   my  bosom,  and  how   I  would 

breathe  his  name. 
How  I  would  watch  him  and  love  him  and  dream  of 

his  lordly  far  fame! 

38 


f  V 


T  was  a  wraith,  a  mistake, — 't  was  not   /  that  lived 

there  in  the  Past, 
A  pale,  futile  girl, — now  a  woman,  a  woman  at  last! 

For  how  could  she  know,  that  pale  one,  so  saintly  and 
so  clean. 

That  Madonna  dwells  eternal  in  the  breast  of  Mag- 
dalene? 

Mary,  humanity 's  Woman,  immaculate  Mother, 

Is  it  Thou,  Thou  alone,  that  art  pure,  and  never  another  ? 


39 


'YONDER  HE  LIES" 


Yc 


ONDER  he  lies  — 
My  best  of  friends, 
His  faithful  eyes 
Filled  with  a  tragic  wondering  surmise. 


The  days  flash  by — 
The  fields,  the  woods — 
When  he  and  I 
Looked  out  on  life  and  had  no  thought  to  die. 

We  did  not  need 
Whistle  or  whine: 
It  seemed  indeed 
What  nature  wrote  upon  us  each  could  read. 

So  word  or  bark 
Broke  seldom  out. 
Save  when  at  dark 
Each  for  his  comrade's  signal  stood  ahark. 

He  does  not  move. 
But  looks  on  me 
As  he  would  prove 
The  virtue  of  our  old  sufficient  love. 


40 


Dear  God,  to  sit 
And  watch  his  eyes! 
Whose  law  is  it. — 
Whose  justice  issues  this  tremendous  writ? 

My  dog,  my  friend. 
Look  up  once  more! — 
Is  this  the  end?    .     .     . 
As  thou  hast  loved  me.  Love  thy  soul  defend! 


41 


'i^i 


A  WINTER  TWILIGHT 

'T'HE  5'ear  has  reached  December  days, 
*       The  fire  is  creeping  into  flame; 
Gently  I  call  my  comrade's  name, 
And  silent  both  we  sit  at  gaze. 

His  head  is  prest  against  my  knee. 
My  hand  upon  his  brow  is  set, — 
The  flames  spring  upward,  and  we  let 

Our  fancies  play  with  all  they  see. 

I  see  the  face  of  one  who  died 

Ere  the  low  whisper  she  had  heard 
That  sought  the  moment  and  the  word 

To  woo  the  maiden  for  my  bride. 

He  sees  a  strange,  enchanted  land 

That  wanes  and  waxes  with  the  flame; 
He  does  not  sense  himself  the  same, 

And  dimly  deems  I  understand. 

My  listless  form  yields  slowly  down ; 
He  also  droops  with  half-closed  eyes. 
Yet  with  a  mute  regard  that  tries 

To  feel  his  master's  smile  or  frov.n. 


42 


On  her  dear  face  a  pensive  smile, — 
The  fire  sinks  low,  and  I  repose; 
The  mystery  of  Wyrd  who  knows? 

Are  these  real  hours  we  beguile? 

I  cannot  answer,  yet  am  blest; 

And  from  the  hearth  he  turns  his  eyes 
Till  they  meet  mine  in  trustful  wise. 

And  so  he  dreams  himself  to  rest. 


iJs 


I , 


1;  I 


ill 


43 


1'.; 


r  .B 


■') 


QUO  ABEO? 

HTHE  flood  flows  down,  the  sails  are  spreading, 
"'•      The  destined  voyage  must  begin;  - 
A  quiet  farewell,  and  then,  undreading, 
I  enter  in. 


But  far  at  sea — "Sir  Captain,  shelter 

Awaits  us  whither?    What  harbour  saves?"- 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  but  the  welter 
Of  heavy  waves. 

"Yet  tell  me — there  shall  be  an  ending? 

Some  port  with  hope  of  us  is  lit? 
Within  some  haven  we  find  friending? 
Ah!  teach  me  it! 


"Captain,    .    .    .    these  seas    .    . 
charted? 
We  voyage  not  in  blind  amaze. 
Growing  forever  fainter-hearted. 
Unending  days?" 


are  not  un- 


No  word — until  I  fall  entreating: 
"If  here  we  wander  evermore. 
If  there  shall  never  be  a  meeting 
Again,  ashore — 


li 


44 


"Oh,  why  the  vessel,  why  the  saihng?- 

Sink  we  to  rest  beneath  the  sea. 
Unsought,  unlonging,  unavaiHng, 
No  more  to  be!" 


I' 


Silence — that  stings  me  with  the  daring 

To  spring  and  seize  that  Shape  unknown: 
O  God — t  is  /  with  whom  I   m  faring 
Alone,  alone! 


m 


■  '■ 


',i  I 


45 


ANTINOMY 


Tf 


HERE  is  no  truth! 
If  here  it  ever  dwelt,  now  it  is  dead; 
Cant  and  shrewd  Custom  flourish  in  its  stead; — 
There  is  no  truth! 

Her  heart  is  holy -pure,  and  speakclh  Very  soolh. 

There  is  no  health! 
For  all  men  with  a  sore  disease  are  smit, 
Past  help  or  hope,  and  all  men  die  of  it; 

1  here  is  no  health! 
Her  broken  body  shineth  with  unimagined  wealth. 

There  is  no  light, — 
But  doubt,  and  secret  dread,  and  shadow-dreams; 
Woeful  we  wander,  following  phantom  gleams; — 

There  is  no  light! 
And  yet  a  homelit  haven  unjoldeth  to  her  sight. 

There  is  no  faith! 
Our  sages  disavow  the  ancient  tales. 
Holding  that  when  the  breath  fails,  being  fails; 

There  is  no  faith! 
Let  them  persuade  themselves !    It  is  not  so  she  saith. 

There  is  no  love, — 
But  only  vanity,  or  passion,  or  pretence, 
Self-interest,  instinctive  social  sense; — 

There  is  no  love! 
This  evil  thing  ye  publish  her  woman-eyes  disprove. 

46 


ON  MY  DOG'S  DEATH 


M 


Y  FRIEND  has  gone 
Thicgh  the  door  of  darkness; 
Wearily  waiting. 
He  fainted  and  fell 
Upon  its  threshold. 
And  ghostly  fingers 
Out  of  the  silence 
Laid  hold  upon  him 
And  drew  him  through. 

He  did  not  know 
The  subtle  secrets 
Of  Death  the  wary; 
Deeply  he  loved  me. 
My  little  comrade,— 
His  eyes  were  shining 
With  lights  of  worship. 
Of  modest  wonder. 
When  I  caressed  him. 
Even  at  the  last, 
Before  the  darkness, 
He  never  doubted: 
He  thought  his  lord 
Was  tired  or  troubled, 
But  would  surely  save  him. 

Thy  lords*    Ah,  comrade, 
Futile  thy  faith! 
47 


I 


■^j^'ii 


And  futile  my  will 
To  heal  and  keep  thee  I 
We  dwelt  together 
As  midges  merely, 
Afloat  in  the  fathomless 
Dust  of  the  ages. 

Drifted  we  near 
Unto  each  other, 
Enjoying  the  sunlight 
Playing  upon  us; 
And  then,  on  a  sudden. 
Came  the  chill  glooming. 
The  separation. 

And  yet  ...  I  feel  .  .  . 

There  are  strange  things  about  love: 

Love  is  so  loving. 

So  patient,  enduring. 

Through  the  doom  of  defeat 

And  utter  sorrow! 

There  are  strange  things  about  love  . 

I  feel  their  strangeness. 


48 


lij 


Love  may  be  somehow 
More  great  than  the  midges, 
Greater  than  ages, 
Than  loss  and  heartbreak 
And  death  and  distance, 
Greater  perhaps 
Than  It  that  orders 
The  swing  of  the  planets. 
Than  all  things  else 
That  are  or  shall  be. 

The  love  I  bear  thee. 
My  lit'  !e  dead  comrade, 
Forever  is  trying 
To  tell  me  something. 

I  am  learning  to  listen. 


49 


,!i 


THE  AMERICAN  BLACK 

(A  Study  in  Race-Consciousness.) 


MIGHT!    Night! 


And  of  the  dawn  no  promise.  Wrong  is  right, 
And  right  is  wrong! 


/ ' 


Long,  long  ago,  ah  long, 
I  roamed  the  forests  vast  and  awful,  bending 
Around  me  with  their  leafy  aisles  unending. 
And  smelt  their  dense  sweet  savours  many  a  league. 

And  fought  or  loved  their  Shadows  silent-striding 
Without  a  fear:  or,  when  a  hard  fatigue 

Befell,  would  sink  to  utter  sleep,  confiding 
In  the  fierce  gods  o'  the  Jungle  I  confest; 
Ah,  that  delicious,  peaceful,  dreamless  rest! 

No  hubbub  of  the  kraal-folk  now  I  hear. 

No  spear-songs,  no  war-music  wild  and  thrilling; 

Not  now  I  shoot  the  arrow,  hurl  the  spear, 

And  rush  with  warrior-rage  unto  the  killing; — 
The  Old  is  dead, 

Or,  if  it  live  perchance. 

It  dwells  in  the  so  distant  battle-dance 

Unfindable  again,  and  poisoned  lance 

With  foe's  blood  wet  and  red. 

That  into  Past  and  Place  its  ghost  has  vanished. 

50 


lil 


Instead, — 
Instead, — 
White  faces,  houses,  streets;   white  ways,  white 
works ; 
Faces  that  frown  and  yet  are  not  unkind. 
Faces  that  smile  where  yet  no  kindness  lurks, 
( 1  he  gods  were  angry  or  were  gracious,  one!) 

Houses  that  wear  a  shutter  and  a  blind 
Streets  all  alike,  and  work  that  's  never  done-- 
Work  endless,  pitiless,  that  craves  and  craves 
Slaves  for  Its  worshippers,  themselves  its  slaves: 
Work  without  aim  or  meaning,  save  to  breed 
Money,  the  mother  of  more  work,  and  greed, 
Its  father;  work  whose  drudging  devotees' 
Bear  heavy  loads  with  harness  on  their  back. 

A   J  **^^  T"  ^-  sodden,  and  we  black  men's  black. 

And  none  has  joy  or  ease: 
The  poor  seek  riches,  and  the  rich  seek  more. 
And  both  must  have  our  service,  hard  and  sore;— 
And  so  we  serve  and  share  not,  nor  rebel, 
(For  one  must  suffer  when  he  is  in  hell) 
And  wear  the  yoke  with  silent,  sullen  shame. 
And  dream  of  Freedom  that  is  not  a  name. 


51 


^ 


LA  PUCELLE  DE  VERCHERES 


\TAME  of  Heaven!    "No  woman,"  you  say,  "may  be 

^  ^         brave  with  the  courage  of  man; 

She  may  suffer  with  patience,  endure;  but  let  him  en- 
counter who  can!" 

Ah,  but,  my  friend,  it  is  idle,  for  how  should  you  know 
what  you  say? 

The  Maid,  you  will  have  it,  is  liker  Our  Lady, — we 
kneel  to  and  pray, — 

La  Sainte  Vierge, — liker  Her  spirit,  than  they  that  must 
wandering  go 

Down  the  way  of  the  woman  in  silence,  whether  for 
welfare  or  woe    .    .    . 

I  know  not; — Our  Lady  was  silent;  not  seldom  the 
Maid  was  withdrawn, 

Ahark  for  the  voices  that  v/hispered  through  the  night 
and  the  dawn. 

But  to  me  was  it  shown, — I  have  seen  and  't  is  mine 
to  declare 

What  the  soul  of  a  woman  may  do  in  the  hour  of  dark- 
est despair. 

Just  fourteen  years  had  she,  no  saint,  but  of  Canada's 
breast, — 

A  girl  in  her  fibre-of-fear,  yet  a  general  true  to  the  test. 

No  saint?  Mais  nonl  The  good  God  knoweth  no  angel 
so  fair 

As  she  that  dwells  pure  in  His  heaven  now, — Madeleine 
de  Vercheres! 

52 


Verch^res  was  unguarded,  look  you,  the  Seignior  on 

duty  away. 
And  Madame  at  Montreal,  and  the  people  afield  for 

the  day, — 

The  twenty-second  October,  Sixteen  Hundred,  Ninety- 
Two, — 

And  Madeleine  stayed  at  the  landing-place,  expecting 

my  canoe; 
For  I  brought  in  supplies  for  the  fort  each  day,  or  shine 

or  rain, 
Wresting  its  good  from   the  forest-soil; — one  needed 

Pierre  Fontaine; 
And  I  knew  the  need,  and  met  it,  and  was  making  ready 

that  morn. 
When  suddenly  in  my  bosom  the  sense  of  fear  was 

born; — 
Ah  God!  that  cry  of  anguish,  ever  it  echoes  to  me. 
As  I  saw  the  Iroquois  fiends  of  hell  beginning  their 

butchery. 
They  had  stolen  upon  the  settlers,  and  were  scalping 

them  in  the  fields, 
Fifty  savages  red  with  blood.    "T  is  now  that  Vercheres 

yields," 
I  thought;  "It  is  time  to  die,"  but  I  ran  for  my  canoe. 
And  into  it  urged  my  dear  ones,  and  waited  what  to  do; 
Ma  foil  it  was  hard  to  know,  but  my  heart  for  joy  gave 

a  leap 
When   I   saw  little  Madeleine  running, — not  her   had 

they  caught  asleep; 
She  was  in  the  fort,  and  the  gate  was  shut,  and  the 

breaches  all  repaired 

53 


1  i 


\i 


1» 


il 


"i 


Ere  the  enemy  could  enter,  though  he  came  as  near  as 

he  dared. 
Leaping,  and  yelUng  his  frightful  yells,  and  waving  in 

the  sun 
The  dripping  spoil  of  his  human  hunt; —  Sacred  Name, 

— that  it  should  be  done! 

There  were  only  three  men  in  the  lort,  and  none  of 

them  could  fight. 
For  one  was  weary  for  the  grave,  and  the  rest  no  men 

aright; 
But  Laviolette,  who  gave  the  alarm  and  entered  with 

her  the  gate, — 
Let  him  be  named  as  a  brave  man  there  who  bravely 

faced  his  fate; — 
He  it  was  told  me  after  of  the  craven  soldier  pair 
That  Madeleine  found  in  hiding  and  drove  to  the  open 

air; 
He  it  was  told  me  her  saying  to  her  brothers  young  but 

true: 
"We  must  fight  to  the  death  for  God  and  country.     I 

count  on  you. 
Remember,  our  father  has  taught  you  that  gentlemen 

are  born 
To  shed  their  blood  for  God  and  the  k'*         Let  our 

name  sustain  no  scorn!" 

For  me  and  mine,  the  Indians  had  seen  us  at  last,  and  1 
knew 

That  the  one  hope  left  was  to  reach  the  fort,  and  I  sud- 
denly turned  the  canoe 

54 


To  the  landing-place,  and  tore  the  water,  paddling  for 
life  or  death. 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  sight  that  made  me  catch  my 
breath; — 

'T  was  Madeleine  coming  from  the  fort  alone,  to  meet 
and  bless. 

And  the  Iroquois  stood  stupid.—stark  images,  no  less! 
For  they  feared  it  meant  a  sortie,  and  they  stood  and 
watched  us  feign, 

And  fired  no  shot,  till  they  saw  the  gate  swing  open  and 
close  again. 

And  the  night  fell  on  us,  and  a  storm  swept  down, — 

wind  and  snow  and  hail, — 
And  the  spirits  of  all  were  darkened,  and  some  began 

to  quail; 

But  the  maid  she  showed  no  sign  of  dread,  and  a  cheer- 
ful tone  she  chose: 

"Until  this  moment  the  hand  of  God  has  saved  us  from 
our  foes. 

Now  let  us  have  courage  and  ward  them  off,  whate'er 

may  hap  to-night. 
Gladly  will  I  command  the  fort,  and  the  six  who  can 

shall  fight." 

The  soldiers  and  I  were  to  guard  the  blockhouse,  with 
orders  clear, 

And  she  placed  the  boys  on  the  bastions,— good  lads 
that  had  lost  their  fear, — 

And  the  aged  man  and  the  child  herself  made  up  the 
sentinel  four, 

55 


'  t 


I'li 


^i 


I 


•H 


>U 


' 


(! 


And  through  the  long  night  the  cry  "All  's  well!"  rang 
out  'mid  the  storm's  downpour. 

And  the  enemy  made  no  move,  for  he  thought  that  our 
few  were  a  host. 

But  he  bode  his  time,  and  our  little  band  were  be- 
leaguered a  week  almost; 

And  if  Madeleine  ate  or  slept  I  know  not,  but  this  I 
know, — 

When  I  looked  toward  the  bastion  she  was  there;  in 
the  blockhouse,  there  also; 

Smiling,  rallying,  promising  help,  shaming  and  cheer- 
ing us  all. 

With  a  gliding  grace  as  sweet  to  see  as  though  she  were 
leading  a  ball. 

My  friend,  had  Daniel  beheld  her,  our  maid  in  his  wild 
beast's  den. 

Rescue  might  come  what  time  it  would,  how  should  it 
matter  when? 

In  a  girl's  young  soul  I  had  seen  for  a  week  the  soul  of 
the  human  race. 

And  I  longed  to  bear  more  and  do  more  before  I  should 
leave  that  place. 

But  the  moment  came — too  soon  it  came, — our  maid 

was  adoze,  with  her  gun 
Lying  across  her  tired-out  arms,  for  the  day  was  spent 

and  done, 
When  some  of  us  heard  a  sound  below,  down  by  the 

riverside, 
And  iristantly  from  the  bastion  "  Qui  oive  ?"  a.  sentinel 

cried; 

56 


And  little  Madeleine  started  up,  and  La  Monnerie  stood 
without, — 

With  his  forty  fighting  men  come  up  to  put  the  foe  to 
rout. 

He  praised  her  wit  and  her  courage;  right  gallantly 
did  he  bow; 

But  she  smiled  and  said:  "Lieutenant,  to  you  we  sur- 
render now." 

And  we  crowded  round  her  to  kiss  the  hand  and  have 

the  heavenly  smile, 
But  she  would  not  listen  to  our  thanksgivings,  and  went 

apart  awhile. 
Would  she  had  grown  a  woman  in  years,  for  woman 

she  was  in  power! 
But  to  test  our  own  was  Madeleine's  soul  lent  us  from 

Heaven  an  hour. 


i 


57 


"T'  :'■ 


"  1 


I  \ 


\i 


ii< 


II 


'/ 


it 


!».! 


■i 


) 


O 

'!-' 


n 


Tn 


SERENADE 

E  leaves  in  the  shaaow 
And  starlight  are  glistening: 
Ahark  is  the  darkness! — 
Love,  art  thou  listening? 


Love,  art  thou  listening?    .    . 

The  night  shall  adore  thee, 
And,  when  we  are  parted. 

The  silence  sing  for  me. 


61 


'/ 


!!,,: 


II 


1^ 


THE  PERFECT  COMRADE 

THE  perfect  comrade  says  nothing,  nothing,- 
But  her  calm  thoughts  and  pure 
Make  her  brow  as  a  cloudless  sky, 
With  twin  stars,  shining  serenely. 


!! 


I 


62 


RENUNCIATION 


HAVE  lost  you,  my  friend, — 
But  my  heart  was  your  advocate,  is  to  the  end: 
I,  a  woman,  love  utterly  you,  and  if  you  have  left  me. 
Not  yours  the  blame  of  it,  mine  be  the  shame  of  it,  or 
indeed  you  've  bereft  me! 


'  i  1 


Ml 


63 


't  ') 


.!'. 


rV!i 


THE  MASTER- WOOER 


ij 


I 


SAW  thy  heart  to-day : 
A  rock  against  whose  breasc  the  ceaseless  spray 
Dashed  itself  into  madness,  woe  and  death, 
Like  one  that  all  in  vain  beleaguereth. 

Ah,  but  the  ccaselessmss  / 
The  sea  that  dieth  liveth  none  the  less : 
After  a  thousand  years  must  come  a  day 
The  rock  shall  yield  herself  to  him  for  aye. 


'i| 


i  ! 


I 


!i 


64 


■    : 


W" 


TO  AN  UNNAMED  LADY 

EN  there  are  others  by,  in  vain  I  dream 
To  dwell  within  the  orbit  of  thine  eyes, — 
Or  should  there  dart  a  sudden  starry  gleam. 
It  hardly  lives  and  lightens  ere  it  dies. 


But,  sweetheart,  how  they  "swim  into  my  ken" 
When  we  're  alone, — how  ruth  and  trust  and 
pride 

Smile  in  their  shining  depths!    Amen,  Amen, — 
For  here  th'  eternal  mysteries  abide! 


65 


't   »: 


■i 


i  I 


'ii 


rl! 


THE  1^0  FLOWERS 

HELEN  wore  it  in  her  hair. 
That  httle  fragile  flower, 
Wore  it  for  an  hour, — 
Then  she  laughed  and  gave  it  me  to  wear; — 
No  little  flower  so  holy  anywhere! 

Fate  looked  and  found  my  Helen  fair, — 

That  little  fragile  flower, — 

Spared  her  but  an  hour; 
When  she  died  the  dayspring  vanished  there  ;- 
No  little  flower  so  holy  anywhere! 


Ml 


5 
i  1 


I 


66 


THE  RETURN 

LIELEN  softly  stole  to  me  just  now, 

*  *  Smiled  and  chided  while  she  smoothed  my  brow: 

"Why  so  still  and  serious? 

Please  do  n't  be  mysterious! 
Laugh  and  love  and  let  us  both  be  gay!  " 

The  shadow  stirred  and  vanished ;   life  was  lit, 
Quick  ecstasy  irradiating  it ; — 

Ah,  how  I  sprang  to  clasp  her  hand! 

Hardly  yet  can  I  understand; — 
Helen  died  a  year  ago  lo-day. 


67 


^1 


'  •»! 


•1- 


m 


M 


SEA-SECRETS 

LITTLE  one.  woman-one.  whither  are  you  saiHng? 
J    From  far  at  sea  your  slender  craft  is  heading  for  the 

haven. — 
But  harbour  's  here,  and  harbour  's  there,  and  all 

unavailing 
Are  the  eyes  that  strain  to  see  your  course,  the  lips 

to  give  you  hailing; — 
Homing  one,  flash  it  me,— whether  for  woe  or  bliss: 
Is  my  heart  your  haven,  or  his? 

Little  one,  woman-one,  I  fear  me  he  is  dreaming, — 
Young  Cupid  at  the  wheel  there,  so  carelessly  he 

turns  it; 
Whisper  to  him,  tell  him  you  are  tired  of  seeming, 
That  you  in  port  would  be,  beyond  the  fitful  waters' 

gleaming; — 
Come,  then,  a  sea-secret!    Silently  breathe  me  this: 
Is  my  heart  your  haven,  or  his? 


15 


Jf 
\ 


68 


:f 


il' 


TRYST 

I  THOUGHT  to  have  made  her  my  bride, 
*  And  now  she  is  dead; 

Death  holds  her  close  by  his  side 
In  his  earth-dark  bed. 

Not  a  murmur,  a  motion,  a  breath! — 

In  vain  does  he  woo: 
Being  dead,  yet  she  yields  not  to  Death  ;- 

Endlessly  true! 

She  knows  that  I  need  her  now 

All  else  above: 
She  will  come  to  me;   when  and  how 

We  leave  to  Love. 


!'h 


k 


69 


1!  ■ 


I     I 
t 


j 


\\ 


TO  LAURE 

LAURE,  when  I  look  on  thee 
-<     My  heart  's  the  heart  of  youth; 
Thy  sweet  simpHcity 

Endowers  me  with  truth: 
Then  never  must  we  part, — 
Thyself  my  spirit  art. 

When  thy  soft  eyes  on  me 
With  maidenwist  are  turned. 

In  their  pure  depths  I  see 

Where  love  may  best  be  learned, 

From  lesser  love,  sweetheart, 

Thyself  my  saviour  art. 

Laure,  till  I  looked  on  thee 
The  man  I  was  was  no  man, 

High  faith  and  honour  free 
Won  me  when  I  won  woman: 

Thou  dost  redeem  my  heart. 

And  still  its  sovran  art. 


:i; 


70 


i; 


DELIA  AND  I 

DELIA  and  I  are  driving  alone, — 
Driving,  driving; 
Sleepily  jogs  the  reliable  roan, 
And  over  the  meadows  the  blossoms  are  blown, 
And  the  song  of  the  thrush  finds  an  echoing  tone — 

Shriving, 
Shriving  my  soul  to  be  clear  as  her  own. 

Delia  and  I  are  moving  content, — 

Moving,  moving; 
And  few  words  are  spoken,  but  many  are  meant; 
She  smiles  at  the  sunshine,  on  her  I  'm  intent. 
And  still  through  the  wood  steals  the  jessamine 
scent. 

Proving, 
Proving  our  hearts  and  laughing  at  Lent. 

Delia  and  I  are  turning  toward  home, — 

Turning,  turning; 
The  stars  are  alight  in  the  infinite  dome, — 
The  field-hues  have  faded  to  glimmering  chrome. 
The  moon-ship  is  launched  from  horizons  of  loam ; — 

Learning, 
Learning  the  roads  that  lead  lovers  to  Rome! 


71 


^f 


*"  mi 


.  » 


{  f 


I; 


lit 


H 


THE  WINE  OF  LOVE 

THE  wine  of  love, — a  winged  wine, 
Crushed  from  the  warm,  incarnadine. 
Deep  breathless  sunset,  and  compounded 
With  star-songs  in  the  midnight  sounded; 
Vivid  as  the  summer  lightning. 
Still  glowing,  paling,  fading,  bright'ning; 

0  wonder-wine,  thy  cup  I  covet. 
Nor  linger  long  my  lips  above  it! 

What  matter  though  the  draught  destroy 
The  sober  mind  and  dull  employ? 
What  matter  all  the  ancient  tasks? — 
To  live,  to  live,  my  spirit  asks: 
Content  no  more  with  placid  quiet. 
But,  kindling  with  the  race  and  riot 
Of  the  swift-enchanting  potion. 
To  enter  earth's  supreme  emotion; 
Its  pains  I  dare,  its  farthest  fortunes 

1  11  compass,  as  a  ^/ng  importunes! 
The  wine  of  love — a  warrior-wine — 
I  quaff,  and  all  the  world  is  mine. 


I  I 


72 


.-.v 


SECOND  THOUGHTS 


W 


AS  it  I  who  dreamed 

In  the  doubtful  Dark 
That  distant  gleamed 

A  kindling  spark? 
Was  it  I  who  sought  it 

And  found  its  flame, 
And  seized  and  brought  it 

The  way  you  came? 


Was  it  I  who  bowed 

And  held  the  fire? 
Was  it  you  whose  proud 

Regard  drew  nigher? 
Was  it  your  torch  took 

Sudden  light  from  mine, 
And  your  radiant  look 

That  I  drank  like  wine? 


"t-* 


Or,  did  you  pass 

Serene  and  still, — 
No  smile,  alas! 

On  those  lips  so  chill; 
Your  torch  unlit. 

And  the  Dark  about, — 
Sole  light  in  it 

Fast  flickering  out? 

73 


li 


i 


f 


Nay,  dying  not. 

Though  its  flame  must  be 
By  fated  lot 

Unpassed  to  thee; 
Though  the  Dark  be  dark, 

One  torch  may  prove 
A  meeting-mark 

In  the  Endless,  love! 


■I 


V\ 


f   ! 


it 


74 


/  \> 


"UNTIL  DEATH  bS  DO  PART" 

CHE  never  meant  to  leave  me  so 
*^     W!io  dowered  me  with  Love's  estate, 
And  taught  my  troubled  soul  to  know 

Redemption  in  the  woman-mate: 
Yet  every  day,  although  she  smiled, 
She  moved  about  so  slow  and  mild. 

1  heard  a  whisper  in  the  air, 

And  felt  at  times  a  furtive  touch, — 

It  followed  me  upon  the  stair. 

And  gloomed  my  doubtful  spirit  much : 

But  when  my  fear  I  breathed  to  her. 

She  murmured:   "Nay,  I  love  y-/-,  dear!" 

And  then  her  hand  in  mine  was  laid 
And  we  sate  siLnt  through  the  night. 

And  though  It  stirred,  were  not  afraid. 
But  waited  for  the  morning  light. 

And  thought  that  life  was  hers  and  mine. 

That  God  was  good,  and  Love  divine. 

Ah  then,  even  then,  the  look  of  pain. 
And  peace,  and  sorrow  on  her  brow! 

And  never  does  she  speak  again. 
Nor  clasp  me  any  longer  now : 
Death,  who  may  hope  to  rival  thee, — 
False  Death,  that  stole  her  hence  from  me? 
75 


1;      ( 


A  I 


].■ 


I 


LOVE'S  SIMILITUDES 

N  vernal  grove  a  poplar  slim 

Queening  it  over  every  tree, 
Lithest  grace  in  girth  and  limb, 

Slender  little  sovereign  she; — 
A  feeble  trope,  a  whilom  whim,  — 

No  poplar  is  a  peer  for  the.! 

Through  azure  air  a  soft  young  cloud. 
Lit  with  the  sun,  and  floating  free: 

About  her  all  the  heavens  are  bowed 
To  guard  and  keep  caressingly  ;— 

But  nay,  my  lady  Gracious-Proud, 
How  shall  a  cloud  compare  with  thee? 

On  autumn  nights  the  harvest  moon 
Touching  with  magic  land  and  sea. 

And  in  the  hearts  of  men  the  tune 
Of  far,  forgotten  minstrelsy; — 

Though  shod  with  wandering  music-shoon. 
The  mellow  moon  's  no  match  for  thee! 

Sweetheart,  no  longer  I   11  essay 
To  seek  thy  like  in  cloud  or  tree 

That  come,  and  bless,  and  pass  away, 
Striving  forever  how  to  be; 

For  all  my  guardian-angels  say 
Perfection  's  perfected  in  thee  I 


76 


TO  A  YOUNG  GIRL 


D( 


'O  not  forget. 
When  you  are  old, 

Margaret, 
And  I  am — cold. 
That  long  ago  I  was  your  loyal  lover. 

Two,  when  we  met, 
Were  you, — no  more, 

Margaret ; 
And  I — twoscore; 
Far  in  the  past,  those  sunlit  days  are  over,- 

Those  days  God  let 
Shine  pure  and  bright, 

Margaret, 
When  man  and  mite 
Merrily  played  amid  the  summer  clover. 

My  sun  has  set 
That  yours  might  rise, 

Margaret ; 
Now  all  men's  eyes 
Rejoice  your  radiant  beauty  to  discover. 

77 


u 


And  yet.  and  yet 
My  soul  says  slowly: 

"Margaret 

Does  not  forget! 
Her  child-heart  noly 
Once  and  for  aye  enshrined  you  as  her  lover." 


i^ 


\     ♦ 


If 


78 


WAITING 


AGAIN,  a  song! 


Wo'-.Id  he  be  silent?    Silence  and  doubt  are  wrong. 
It  ■'-  not  long.     .     .     .     No.     .     .     .     No.  it  is  not 

long.    .     .     . 
Even   now   his   sturdy   wings   must   beat    toward 

home  and  me. 

Oh,  let  me  sing 

As  though  my  notes  he  waited,  listening 
Somehow  amazed; — let  his  mate's  music  bring 
His  erring  flighl  ♦^o  yearned-for  rest,  unerringly! 

Hark!    .    .    .     T  is  not  yet,    .     .    . 
But  I  am  happy;   't  is  not  meet  to  fret.     .    .     . 
Am  I  not  happy?    The  sun  is  well-nigh  set. 
And  soon,  and  soon  he  homes  him  to  the  old  beech 
tree. 


lying  dead,  the 


Yes,  soon!    .    .    .    Yes,  soon! 
Another    .    .    .    might  be 

wind  a-croon; 
Broken  his  wings,  unheeding  sun  or  moon.     .     .     , 
But  not  my  love;  my  strong  one  co;  leth  back  to  me. 

Dear  love,  do  not, 

(If  thou  art  hiding  near  the  trysting-spot) 

Do  not  delay,  though  sweet  the  little  plot!    .     .     . 

I  wait,  and  oh,  sing  as  I  may.  Fear  also  waits  for 

tr  5. 

79 


>  1 


.  ( 


v< 


All  song  is  done.    .    .    . 
Shrunken  to  nothing  is  the  shameful  sun; 
And  out  the  stars  are  coming,  one  by  one.     .     .     . 
And  in  the  cold  night  lies  my  life,  under  a  beechen 
tree! 


i; 


}; 


3* 


7  / 


80 


AT  PARTING 

THE  niglit  is  silent,  love,  and  here  beside  thee, 
Holding  the  hand  that  is  not  now  denied  me, 
I  too  am  still ;  how  shall  I  say  farewell? 

No  words  have  we,  and  yet  the  summer  weather, 
Lulling  the  garden,  gathers  us  together, 
And  mingles  us  with  myrrh  and  asphodel. 

Was  there  a  time  before  that  time,  I  wonder. 
When  something  flashed  and  rent  the  veil  asunder, 
And  visions  faded  and  the  Truth  befell? 


And  now,  because  thou  art  the  Truth    I  '11  grieve 

thee 
No  longer  by  forbearing  to  believe  tftee, 
Though  I  am  sent  upon  a  sorrow-spell. 


How  long  the  way  thou  sayest  not,  but  only 
That  I  must  tread  it  loyally  and  lonely. 
Unheeding  whether  heaven  wait,  or  hell. 


'>,. 


Why  this  must  be  I  cannot  know,^  beloved. 
But  thou  dost  know,  and,  howsoe'er  removed. 
Some  day,  perchance,  the  secret  thou  wilt  tell. 

91 


?* 


I.i 


Nothing  I  ask;    how  shall  the  Truth  be  bounded? 
I  leave  thee,  yet  by  thee  I   m  still  surrounded: 
The  sea's  voice  sounds  about  the  farthest  shell. 

The  moonlight  deepens,  love,  and  grows  to  golden, 
And  thou  and  I  in  it  are  strangely  holden; — 
Ah,  holy,  holy  moment  of  farewell! 


]M 


ii- 


t  ' 


I? 

I!' 


82 


h 


^11 


I 


THE  NOVICE 

SHE  had  a  lover  in  the  world, 
A  lover  wooing  her  to  wed ; 
"And  does  he  live,  or  is  he  dead?" 

She  knows  not,  but  she  bows  her  head, 
And  broods  upon  the  blessed  beads, 
And  spends  the  day  in  holy  deeds. 

"Mary,  for  one,"  she  intercedes, 
"Who  is  not  good,  thy  grace  I  crave; 
Madonna,  grant  his  soul  to  save! 

"He  is  not  good,  but,  ah!  so  brave. 
And  strong,  and  tall,  and  careless-glad— 
Careless  and  proud,  my  lover-lad! 

"Madonna,  I  am  very  sad; 

i  do  not  know,  I  cannot  hear — 

And  once  I  held  him  passing  dear. 

"O  Mother,  let  me  breathe  my  fear 
Into  your  bosom  true  and  pure: 
I  am  not  sure!     I  am  not  sure! 

"  'To  wed  the  Christ  shall  be  my  cure,' 
I  thought:    'I  must  no  earthly  love. 
But  fix  my  heart  on  Him  above.' 
83 


u 


j 


1 

f 


I! 


"Bear  witness,  Mary,  how  I  strove 
To  melt  his  image  into  thine. 
And  thy  dear  Son's,  incarnadine! 

"And  wilt  thou  not  bestow  a  sign? 
May  not  my  rebel  heart  be  blest? 
Or  is  t  unworthy  of  thy  rest? 

"Here  in  the  twilight  I  've  confest, 
Mary,  to  thee  alone — thou  knowest 
How  I,  among  thy  maidens  lowest, 

"How  I,  even  I,  acre;   and  owest 
Thou  not  thy  votary  a  grace? — 
Once  more,  but  once,  \o  see  his  face! 

"Mother,  I  clasp  thy  knees,  embrace 
Them,  kiss  them,  in  abandonment! 
But  once — and  I  shall  be  content! 

"Too  weak  and  wrong  for  thine  assent? 

Nay,  Mary,  she  was  not  a  nun 

Who  bore  thee,  and  who  yearned  to  one. 

"And  tnou  thyself  didst  bear  a  Son 

(Whose  name  be  praised!) — Saint  through  and 

through, 
O  Mary,  thou  rt  a  woman,  too!" 


(i 


84 


lii 


;r: 


A  GIRL'S  COMPLAINT  TO  HER  HEART 


-%■ 


FELT  a  breeze  blowing  upon  my  brow. 
Beside  the  open  window  as  I  lay. 

And  dreamed  it  whispered:  "Lo,  the  dawning  day! 

Awaken!  for  the  winds  are  waking  now.  " 

A  bird  sang  dimly  from  her  swaying  bough, 
And  in  my  dream  I  struggled  to  obey 
The  breeze  and  bird,  and  joy  even  as  they 

In  the  broad  Sun, — and  woke,  I  knew  not  how. 

About  my  heart,  too,  hovers  a  waiting  wind: 
I  v/ould  my  heart  would  waken,  but  it  seems 
Stubbornly  sleeping,  careless  of  any  cry; 
I  know  it  is  not  cruel  or  unkind, — 
Yet  if  it  rouse  not  from  insensate  dreams. 
How  may  it  hope  for  morning?    It  must  die. 


'•i^i 


83 


I! 


p.) 

V 


i! 


O 


A  SONNET  OF  SPOUSAL 

VER  the  mountain  hangs  the  hush  of  dawn, 

Irresolute  to  be  or  cease  to  be; 

The  mist-bathed  valley  and  each  lonely  tree 
Stretch  motionless,  as  on  a  canvas  drawn; 
Afar,  ahark,  a  flight-arrested  fawn 

Stands  tense,  th'  eternal  sacrament  to  see — 

The  quickened  sky,  that  pulses  tremblingly 
Till  red  with  day's-blood  lighting  hill  and  lawn. 

So  is  it  with  the  love  that  's  born  in  me: 
Silent  it  waited,  wavered;   risen  now. 

The  sky  of  life  it  climbs  with  steady  power; 
Sweetheart,  its  day  is  ours.    Oh.  may  we  see 
Together  its  high  noon,  together  bow 
And  worship  in  its  holy  evening  hour! 


(■ 


III 


86 


I 


w 


AMOR  SEMPITERNUS 

HEN  first  I  found  thee.  Ruth,  I  thought:  "How 
rare!" 

As  one  with  quiet  pleasure  may  behold 

A  wildwood  flower  her  fairy  leaves  unfold 
Because  a  herald  zephyr  lingered  there. 
After  a  new  adventure:  "She  had  an  air 

Of  mirth  and  mischief;"  then — "With  how  con- 
trolled 

And  clear  a  vision  she  views  the  stars  untold!" 
Last,  on  a  sudden:  "God,  how  she  is  fair!" 

When  was  the  mystery  that  made  thee  mine? 
What  moment  married  us, — the  first  surprise? 
The  summing  of  thy  linked  lovelinesses? 
Or  the  pang  of  passionate  hope,  desire  divine?  .  .  . 
Ah  none!    We  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes, 
Remembering  a  Chaos  of  caresses. 


i. 


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87 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2i 


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1.8 

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^  APPLIED  irvl^GE     Inc 

^r  165J   East   Main   Street 

~—  Rochester,   New   York        14609       U5A 

.^  (716)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

=^  (716)   288  -  5989  -  Fax 


[-'■ 


i. 


'I' 


I! 


i'- 


PAURA  NON  E  NELLA  CARITA 

T~'HE  place,  a  Tuscan  churchyard,  and  the  time, 
•■'      Languorous  autumn,  and  late  afternoon; 

The  silence  of  surrender:  the  solemn  moon,— 
Pale  ghost  of  some  unexpiated  Crime, — 
Viewing  the  sun's  recessional  sublime 
Austerely;  while  the  shadowy  lagoon 
Trembles  along  the  surface,  ceasing  soon 
As  to  the  whisper  of  an  alien  clime. 

But  who  are  these,  unheeding  the  chill  gloom, 
That  move  along  the  avenues  of  Death, 

Or  idly  pause  before  some  ancient  tomb. 
Where  each,  to  hold  the  other,  lingereth? 

Ah,  only  lovers  can  bear  the  eyes  of  Doom, 
And  smile  to  hear  the  fatal  words  she  saith! 


\ 


J 


88 


THE  FIREFLY 

Vjr^HILE  on  my  bed  I  lay,  watching  the  night, 
^      A  sudden  something  flashed  about  the  room. 
At  brilliant  battle  with  the  giant  gloom. 
Pulsating  vividly, — a  point  of  light; 
A  brigand  with  a  bosom;  a  roving  knight 
Of  old  Romance,  ready  to  reassume 
The  quest  of  Roland,  and  challenge  Roland's 
doom 
In  the  dead  Dark; — a  firefly,  fleet  and  bright. 

So  darts  a  tireless  thought  about  my  mind, — 
Luminous,  magic,  passionate  with  joy. 

Scourging  and  slaying  the  melancholy  drove 
That  fear  its  power,  as  the  dust  the  wind ; 
Within  its  heart  of  fire  a  winged  boy 

Comp)elling,  and  his  radiant  name  is  Love. 


:';^ 


89 


k 

i 


r 

ft ' 


THE  TRANSFIGURER 

/^  SWEET  to  hear  thy  name  on  friendly  tongue,— 
^^     But  sweeter  far  to  hear  thee  utter  mine! 
O  joy  to  enter  memory's  secret  shrine 
And  find  thee  throned  sovereign  saint  among 
All  hopes  and  h^  -lours  I  have  sought  or  sung ; — 
But  greater  joy  to  see  the  image  shine 
Of  my  sole  self  within  thy  tender  eyne, 
And  lose  the  years,  and  share  thy  spirit  young! 

If  this  be  selfish,  dear,  or  selfish  seem. 

Let  me  confess  my  fault,  and  bear  correction;— 

And  yet  from  penance  may  this  plea  redeem: 

My  name  I  love  not,  but  as  thou  dost  call, 
Nor  my  presentment  save  in  one  reflection, 

For  thou  art  Love,  and  loved,  and  lover  all. 


90 


It 


"THE  MOON.  AND  MY  LOVE.  AND  I" 

'T'HE  moon,  and  my  love,  and  1 ; 
*  A  welter  of  clouds  in  the  sky; 
And  the  night-wind  sighing  by! 

I  turned  to  her  and  I  said: 

"Why  are  we  yet  unwed? 

Soon  the  moment  will  have  sped." 

Trembling,  she  touched  my  hand: 
"How  may  you  understand? 
Is  love  a  thing  to  be  planned, 

"Or  its  own  sufficient  light? 

How  the  storm-clouds  drive  to-night! 

Fearsome  to  me  the  sight! 

"Can  the  moon  be  happy  above, — 

The  moon,  dear  symbol  of  love? 

She  thrives  not,  where  once  she  throve. 

"Lover,  I  dread  the  maze 
Of  'wildering  sorrow-ways 
That  may  darken  all  our  days." 

But  I  made  answer  to  her: 

"The  moon  is  the  happier 

For  the  sky's  strange  strain  and  stir. 

91 


i 


(H  : 


IT" 


rf 


^4 


If. 


"She  shines  as  she  always  shone. 
And  still  reigns — she  alone  — 
On  her  storm-besiege'd  throne. 

"Soon  must  the  clouds  subside; 
Soon  shall  the  wind  have  died; 
Through  a  heaven  new-glorified 
Love's  majesty  shall  ride, — 
God's  Moon,  th'  eternal  Bride!" 

A  hush  in  the  air, — no  sound! 
Somehow  her  hand  I  found; 
The  moonlight  wrapt  us  round. 


I ) 


Ml 


92 


HER  HEART  BREAKS  SILENCE 

DECAUSE  that  thou  art  pale  and  cold  and  still, 
I  feel  thy  spirit.  Winter,  one  with  mine; 
All  times  are  sunlit  saving  only  thine. 
And  all  but  thee  the  joys  of  life  fulfill: 
Sweet  madcap  Spring  skips  free  from  hill  to  hill. 
And  Summer's  golden  sap  swells  every  vine. 
The  wine-dark  eyes  of  Autumn  brood  benign 
Through  purpling  ways  upon  the  whippoorwill. 

His  note  is  silenced,  gray  and  lonely  ghost. 

By  thee  alone:   from  thee  the  birds  and  streams 
Shudder  away  for  shelter,  love  thee  not ; 
And  the  great  Glory  thou  dost  worship  most 
Withdraws  his  being,  and  averts  his  beams. 
And  leaves  thee  to  thy  melancholy  lot. 

He  does  not  know  the  secret  in  thy  heart, 
And  why  thy  face  is  pale  he  does  not  dream, 
Nor  yet  how  excellent  thy  sight  would  seem 

If  he  approaching  saw  thee  what  thou  art: 

In  his  smile  smiling,  of  his  presence  part. 

By  his  warm  radiance  made  to  glow  and  gleam ; — 
Thy  fruitful  beauty  straight  becomes  his  theme. 

And  love  his  challenge  is,  and  love  his  chart. 

93 


So,  Winter,  is  it  with  the  soul  of  me 

My  hero  scorns  so  sHght  and  frail  to  find — 
And  ever  slighter  while  it  waits  unblest; — 
O  turn  he  but  a  moment,  he  should  see 

His  own  light  in  these  eyes,  to  all  else  blind, 
His  holiest  honour  in  this  faithful  breast! 


:1, 


94 


t 


'SHE  IS  NOT  DEAD" 


^HE  is  not  dead :  it  shall  not  be 
^That  she  has  gone  away  from  me 
Into  a  stark  Eternity. 

Her  limpid  eyes  were  large  with  ruth 
And  wonder;  in  her  senses,  youth, 
And  hunger  in  her  heart  for  truth. 

Ah,  how  she  loved  to  watch  them  glide 
So  dreamily  from  side  to  side, — 
The  birds  that  but  a  summer  bide; 

And  how  she  joyed  in  greening  trees 
And  every  saucy  little  breeze 
That  with  her  locks  took  liberties  1 

But  if  a  shadow  fell,  and  Pain — 
My  tireless  harrier,  unslain, 
Unslayable — should  strike  again. 

Child  though  she  was,  the  mother-soul 
Would  rise  within  her,  and  would  roll 
The  stone  away,  and  make  me  whole. 

So  child  and  mother  she,  now  wise 
Beyond  the  books,  while  now  surprise 
And  maiden-mischief  lit  her  eyes; 

95 


Hi 


Then  dreamy  as  the  birds  that  glide, 
Her  gaze  would  change;  unsatisfied 
And  wistful  would  it  wander  wide, 
Seeking  the  secret  still  denied 
To  mortals.    ...    So.  they  say,  she  died. 

li  is  not  irue :  it  shall  not  be 
That  she  has  gone  away  from  me 
Into  a  stark  Eternity. 


^1 


% 


Mi 


m. 


-  Im 


I 


^4 


1^ 

I 

I  -■ 

t, 


n 


}* 


•O  EARTH.  WHAT  CHANGES!" 


(Macaulay'a  New  Zealander.) 

LIE  climbed  no  more,  but  turned  at  dusk  of  day,- 
•^  *     A  statued  doom.     At  last  he  sigh'd  and  said: 
"And  this  was  London!"    Died  the  word  away, 
Trembling  to  silence  with  that  mighty  dead. 


99 


111 


I 


1 


n 


' » 


THE  EARTHQUAKE 

A  ROLLING,  griding  rumble:  a  sharp  shudder ;- 
The  earth  in  spasm! 

A  long  multitudinous  wail    .     .     . 

Sudden  flames  leaping;  fingering,  swallowing 
Dust  and  darkness' 


'h 


100 


AN  OLD  MASTER 

I  SAW  a  picture  yesternight, 
*       By  a  most  ancient  Master  done; 
Ah  me!  its  beauty  smote  so  bright 
I  saw  it,  and — *t  was  gone. 

Dark  were  the  woods,  and  dark  the  plain, 
And  dark  clouds  drifted  all  about. 

When  from  a  storm-heart  rent  in  twain 
The  white-pure  Moon  looked  out. 


101 


[; 


) 


«  !•* 


THE  TOUCH 

AGE-OLD,  age-silent.  Nature  queen, 
^     Mindful  of  ancient  vows. 
Changeless,  with  finger  sibylline 
Touches  once  more  the  trembling  Ireen ; 
Shyly  and  dreamily  the  green 
Wavers  along  the  boughs. 


102 


i 


A  LAKE  SUNRISE 


CHEATHED  by  the  everlasting  sky 
*^  That  bends  caressing  from  on  high 
In  garments  blent 
Of  white  and  blue, 
And  fairer,  farther,  fainter  hue. 
The  silent  lake  lies  musing  and  is  we!l  content. 

Calm  child-of-many-waters,  dream! 
Sudden  across  thy  breast  shall  gleam 
A  wave-kissed  way 

Of  floating  gold, 

Fixed  skyward  with  a  steadfast  hold. 
Whereon  an  angel  lingering  may  kneel  and 
pray. 


M 


ill 


103 


m 


H 


(' 


DAYBREAK 

^UN!     Sun!     Sun!    Sun! 
Chorus  of  earth-birds,  chorus  of  sky-birds,  myriad 

matins  begun, 
Cross-tangled  adventurous  music,  anthems  of  awe. 
Of  appeal,  adoration:  litanies  now  of  law, 
And  now  raptured  singings  of  trust  in  the  truth  of 

the  light. 
The   Lighter's  proud   power,   and   the   rich-altared 

East,  all  bedight 
With  the  glimmer,  the  glow,  and  the  glory,  till  it 

mounts  into  f^ame. 
And  the  mass-music  mightily  swells  to  the  sovereign 

Name — 
Sun! 
As  his  garment,  incredibly  golden,  the  edge  of  the 

world  has  won. 
And  life  is  astir,  and  love  is  alive,  and  the  sighing 

and  sleeping  are  done; — 
Sun !    Sun !     Sun ! 


104 


ni 


LES  CAMARADES  EN  VOYAGE 


HTHE  vessel  is  restlessly  rushing  over  the  waters, — 
■'•  But  the  moon  is  silent  and  still; 

Hundreds  of  men  and  women  a'e  aboard, 

Listlessly  lounging,  or  sleeping,  or  chatting,  or  play- 
ing,— 

But  the  moon  is  solitary; 

The  heart  of  the  ship  labours  incessantly. 

With  fierce  energy  driving  her  forward,  forward, — 

Ever  the  effortless  moon  is  astern ; 

The  lights  of  the  port  shine  out, 

The  passengers  stir,  show  interest,  crowd  eagerly 
up, — 

"We  are  arriving,"  they  say.     "We  have  made  a 
speedy  voyage.  " 

And  as  they  step  upon  the  pier,  lo  the  whiteness 
there ! 


Jl 


ill 

I  . 

M 


105 


M 

M\ 

14  1 


sill 


3    -' 


w 


K 


^. 


ii 


TO  NIGHT 

C DOLING,  quieting  Night. 
Subtle  abolisher  of  the  long-burning  light 
Of  Day;  wrapt  with  thine  ever-darkening  hair, 
Searching  with  agile,  patient  fingers  everywhere 
Lest  in  some  undiscovered  spot  thy  foe,  reluctant, 

hideth ; — 
Mother,  in  whose  deep  bosom  Sleep  abideth. 
Thy  child  and  Death's,   the  gloomier  Shade  that 

glideth 
Constantly  after,  stern  husband-soul  of  thee. 
Whom  only  thou  regardest  and  dost  not  flee, — 
O  lead  him  soon  to  me, 
That  I    too  feel  him  Father,  unfearing  tread  where 

he  hath  trod. 
And  be  at  one  with  the  silent  Three  that  brood  and 

move  in  the  Shadow  of  God! 


i'- 


'' 


A  1* 


106 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT 


CI  LENT  the  vast  of  night: 
*^  Silent  the  hills  on  horizons, 
Low,  dark,  continuing; 
Not  a  leaf  is  bestirred  on  the  branches 
By  the  wind,  now  hushed  into  nothing. 
Or  the  careless,  confident  touch  of  a  bird  alighting; 
Silent  the  rocks,  sullen  resisters; 
Silent  the  waters. 
Even   the  very  young  waves,   the  gentle  rippling 

washes  of  the  slim  sand's  little  lovers; 
Very  silent   the  moon,   that   rises  and   rises,   dear 

sorceress — 
Never  a  whisper,  a  hint,  yet  the  luminous,  tremulous 

path  is  forever 
Turning  and  twinkling  to  me,  appearing,  evanishing. 
Infinite   points   of  light   liquescent,   sparkling   and 

darkling ; 
And  I  look  at  the  hills  and  the  trees  and  the  rocks 

and  the  waters, 
And  I  look  at  the  moon  and  the  glorified  path  to 

her  glory. 
And  share  my  brothers'  silence. 


I  ; 


I  f  !l 


i 


107 


I:  4 


! 

V 


\] 


ARIEL'S  REVENGE 

IN  olden  time  sprite  Ariel  would  fly 
To  do  his  Master's  bidding,  far  and  high; 
But  that  was  ere  Man  looked  at  him  askance, 
And  changed  him  to  a  shadow-of-romance. 
Long  Ariel  endu»-ed  his  friendless  fate. 
But  a  strange  miracle  has  happened  late: 
The  restless  prisoner  has  broke  his  span 
And  flown  into  the  very  heart  of  Man, 
Making  us  mad  our  new-felt  wings  to  try, — 
We  rise,  we  dive,  we  climb,  we  mount  the  sky! 
Forgive  us,  Aviator  Ariel, — 
T  is  thou  hast  freed  us,  and  we  love  thee  well! 


108 


I 


THE  AERONAUT 


1    yEAN,  sing  paean! 
For  I  have  made  me  wings; 

No  more  the  empyrean 
Withstands  my  journeyings; — 
The  empyrean. 

Eternal,  silent,  vast! 

I  enter  it  at  last, 
And  the  god  in  me  sings. 


'ower,  smg  power 


For  I  am  greater  grown; 
This  is  the  mighty  hour 

When  all  becomes  mine  own ;- — 
The  mighty  hour 
Dreamed,  laboured  for,  fulfilled. 
Won  as  my  spirit  willed, — 

The  firmament  known. 


Yet,  in  the  singing, 
Hearken  a  low.  sweet  cry: 

"Wouldst  thou,  O  Man,  be  winging 
The  stretches  of  the  sky;  - 
Wouldst  thou  be  winging 

Thine  ever-upward  way. 

Did  not  Love  smile  and  say: 
'Thy  courier  I !'?" 

109 


Ipl 


1 1 


li 


A  SETTLER'S  GRAVE 

F''AR  on  the  outflung  headland  thou  dost  He, 
Silent  and  lone,  the  lonelier  for  thy  kin; 
Here  they  have  railed  thy  rotting  tombstone  in. 
And  here  a  thousand  times  they  pass  thee  by. 
Theirs  the  unwistful,  unillumined  eye. 

To  whom  the  earth  is  earth,  who  never  win 
A  whisper'd  word  from  heaven  when  suns  begin. 
But  toil  and  sleep; — these  live  and  thou  dost  die. 

Or  is  it  death  to  leave  the  ways  of  men 
And  lie  upon  the  headland  with  no  sound 

Save  for  the  brooding  Love  that  covers  glen 
And  lake  and  forest  in  its  vast  profound; — 

While  the  gulls  shrill  their  secrets  to  thy  breast, 

And  in  the  boughs  above  the  redbirds  nest? 


! 

j 


1 


10 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  EAST 

I  SING  the  East  at  sunset,  the  low  Elast, 
*■     The  lonely  East,  that  is  not  looked  upon; 
Her  glory  hath  departed,  from  her  wan 
And  straitened  eyes  the  stare  is  unreleased; 
She  sees  the  marriage  and  the  marriage-feast. 
The  shameless  ardour  of  the  Bride  o'  the  Sun, 
The  troubled  yielding  of  the  Captive  One, 
Who  droops  and  wavers  till  his  light  hath  ceased. 

Still  sits  the  East  and  broods  across  the  earth 
With  fixed  eyes:  Is  motherhood  in  vain? 

And  mindi  her  of  the  marvel  of  his  birth 
And  the  long  silences  that  spoke  again; 

Thus  through  the  night  she  dreams;    at  dawn  her 
eyes 

With  awe  are  holden  and  with  strange  surmise. 


i 


V  -Cu^ 


ill 


i«i 


I 


i  1 


I 


T 


A  FOREST  GRAVEYARD 

HE  birds  brood  silent  in  the  underbrush, 

A  stricken  ghostliness  stands  each  ytark  tree, 
The  hesitating  river  gUdes  less  free. 

Fearful  of  the  inviolable  hush; 

Beyond  the  stream  a  solitary  thrush 

Sings,  and  the  sun's  deep  crimson  drapery 
Is  droopmg  o'er  the  land,  but  breathes  to  me 

No  hope  the  wintering  shadows  cannot  crush. 

1  turn  to  go,  and  in  the  littered  leaves 
Stumble  upon  a  shell,  a  shapeless  stone, 
A  withered  rose,  huddled  together  there; 
O  secret  grave,  sure  no  sad  mother  grieves 
The  little  ward  of  death  thou  guard'st  alone: 
Be  I  thy  mourner,  child,  and  thou  my  care! 


112 


■}r- 


SONG  OF  THE  EVENING  CLOUD 

IVyJOTHER.  O  mother.  Moon  my  mother. 
*'^*-     I  hear  your  whisper  over  the  sky, 

Gentle  its  breathing  as  you  dravv  nigh. 
It  is  softer  and  sweeter  than  any  other, — 
The  whisthng  sweep  of  the  breezes  keen. 
The  murmurous  hum  where  the  Sun  has  been. 
Or  the  croon  of  the  Night  in  her  shadow -sheen ; 
Mother,  O  mother.  Moon  my  mother, 
Come,  and  my  kisses  shall  smile  and  smother! 

Mother,  O  mother,  Moon  my  mother, 
Why  must  you  glide  so  swiftly  by? — 
Yet  how  pure  is  my  life  and  my  heart  how  high. 
Higher  this  moment  than  any  other! 
While  I  clung  to  you,  dear,  and  your  word  had 

blest. 
While  your  white  spirit  became  my  guest, 
O  the  joy  I  felt  to  be  so  caressed; — 
Mother.  O  mother.  Moon  my  mother, 
Brighten  us,  lighten  us.  brother  and  brother! 


113 


iil 


i  * 


■f- 


H 


t\\ 


"BROWN  FELLOW" 

DROWN  FELLOW,  rusty  fellow,  better  cease  your 
'-'  wooing: 

All  Summer  long  your  loves  have  laughed  at  your 
appealing  glances. 
Too  whist  you  are,  unkissed  you  are — yours  is  no 
way  of  doing; 
For  bright  Lord  Sun  each  leaf  that  blows  be- 
dimples  her  and  dances; 
But  you  've  no  share,  mute  surly  Earth, 
In  this  green  and  golden  mirth. 
Give  o'er,  give  o'er. 
Leaf-loves  desire  no  more! 

Brown  fellow,  rusty  fellow,  wise  you  are  and  patient; 
Madcap   Summer's    day    is   done,    and    friendly 
Autumn  careth; 
They  stoop  to  you,  they  droop  to  you — what  though 
you  're  dark  and  ancient — 
The  little  leaves  they  lowly  turn,  each  to  your 
bosom  fareth. 
And  as  it  falls  the  tender  hush 
Of  love  and  longing  's  in  its  blush. 
Amen  to  ye, 
Your  brides  they  all  shall  be! 


114 


M 


"THE  FIAIN  IT  RAINETH" 

TpO  green  the  grass, 
•'•      And  mud  the  road, 
To  run  the  lass. 

And  draw  the  toad, 
The  rain  it  raineth  cheerily. 

On  ploughed  field. 
And  cistern  dry. 
On  woods  and  weald 
Lest  saplings  die. 
The  rain  it  raineth  busily. 

To  stream  the  plains. 
And  scare  the  kine. 
To  bang  the  panes, 
And  drench  the  pine. 
The  rain  it  raineth  wilfully, 

Down  to  the  sea, 

Whose  slumbrous  waves 
Insensate  be, — 

Dull-shining  graves. 
The  rain  it  raineth  mournfully. 


115 


It 


OUTWARD  BOUND 


OAILING.  sailing. 
Over  the  waters  and  over  the  world. 
High  to  the  heaven  our  sheets  unfurled; — 

Hailing,  hailing 
Our  Lord  the  Sun,  our  Lady  Moo" 
The  starlit  Night,  the  ardent  Nooii; — 

Failing, 

Paling, 
To  twilights  breathless. 
And  dreamings  deathless, — 
And  aft  the  Creole  sailor's  croon. 

Leaping,  leaping. 
Quick  with  the  quivering  life  of  the  Trades, — 
On  our  bow  grows  the  sea-line,  to  windward  it 
fades ; — 

Steeping,  steeping 
The  good  ship  and  her  marineres 
In  sea-hght,  sea-dark,  years  and  years; — 
Creeping, 
Sleeping, — 
The  Wind-God  numbers 
Our  sudden  slumbers. 
Our  eeriest  fancies,  strangest  fears. 


16 


THE  LAST  LULLABY 

'X'HE  shepherd  moon  mothers  her  shining  sheep,- 
■■■  The  Httle  stars  that  cluster  close  and  deep; 
And  soon  they  sleep. 

The  flower's  wings  are  folded  to  her  breast : 
She  hears  a  whisper  from  the  darkling  west ; — 
How  pure  her  rest ! 

Dim  droop  the  drowsing  birds  upon  the  trees; 
The  boughs  are  still  as  they:  no  unquiet  breeze 
Troubles  their  ease. 

The  far  and  lonely  waters  feel  the  spell, 
Whose  monotones  sound  slowly  out,  and  tell 
Their  sway  and  swell. 

All  nature  is  asleep  and  dreaming  dreams 
Aglow  with  wonder  that  on  waking  seems 
But  broken  gleams. 

So  let  my  spirit  sleep  the  sleep  of  death : 
Close,  eyes;   be  idle,  hands;  and  silent,  breath! 
Wait  what  It  saith! 


117 


Hi 


1.  I 


i'i 


\y 


I 


1 


11 


i 


THE  GOD  OF  THE  GULLS 

OTHE  God  of  the  gulls  goes  straight  and  swift. 
Whatever  winds  may  be: 
Straight  he  goes,  and  swift  he  goes, 
Over  the  secret  sea. 

For  the  God  of  the  gulls  has  a  restless  heart 

That  will  not  let  him  be: 
By  day  and  by  night  i^  nrges  him 

With  the  urge  of  ete        /. 

Yet  the  tireless  God  of  the  tireless  gulls 

Forgetteth  not  his  own: 
Out  of  his  bosom  booms  a  cry, — 

Wave-echoed,  tempest-blown; 

And  the  birds  beat  down  to  the  sheltering  shrou's. 

Or  gather  upon  the  hull; 
Safely  they  sail  on  the  breast  of  the  giant, — 

The  strong  or  the  young  sea-gull. 

But  the  storm  dies  down,  and  the  clouds  dissolve. 

And  out  on  the  sunlit  sea 
Wheel  and  circle  the  white-feathered  folk. 

Playing  right  merrily. 

Then  their  God  laughs  kindly,  and  tosses  food 

To  the  eager-whirling  things;— 
A  rapturous  dive  of  the  sea-children 

With  the  sun  on  their  glistening  wings! 

lis 


i 


O  the  God  of  the  gulls  goes  straight  and  swift. 

Whatever  winds  may  be: 
Straight  he  goes,  and  swift  he  goes, 

Over  the  secret  sea. 


i\ 


Ive, 


119 


^f 


1 ' 


il 


I! 


i. 


<i    i 


A  NIGHT  ON  THE  SAINT  LAWRENCE 

(RIMOUSKI) 

IF  the  world  were  itself  alone, — mere  mountains  and 
*■  seas  and  cities. 

Performing  each  its  function,  yielding  no  further 
service. 

There  might  not  be  God. 

But  there  is  Beauty  also,  and  Beauty  is  very  God. 

Sky-glory,  sea-glory,  glory  of  rocky  headland. — 
The   vivid   tinge   of   the   orange-tawn   outspreading 

from  the  sunset, 
Vivid  yet  soft,  a  velvet  dream-fire,  glowing  with  opal 

magic. 
Pulsing  with  silent  passion     .     .     .     imperceptibly 

paling     .     .     . 
For  fifty  golden  minutes  creating  a  saffron  sea, 
A  ship  of  emprise  romantic,  a  shore  of  haloed  har- 
bours ! 

In  the  shoulder  of  the  sky  a  single  star  is  shining. 
While  from  the  foreground  answers  the  tiny  beam  of 
a  lighthouse. 

Too  tremulous  the  scene:  soon  it  has  faded,  vanished, 
And  steel-blue  darkness  comes,  and  a  shudder  as  of 
coldness. 

120 


After  a  long  moment,  a  quiet  waiting, — 
To  the  north  a  great  warm  sleepy  light  arises: 
The  full  moon  swimming  up  from  the  wet  and  wan 
horizon. 

With  worshipful  wave-satellites  weaving  her  path  be- 
fore her! 

Alas!  such  pictures  stay  not, -pass,  yet  can  perish 

never ; 
For  them  supremely  exist  the  sky  and  the  sea  and 

the  mountains, 
As  parts  in  a  master-drama. 

O  God,    how  Thy   glory   makes   the   human   spirit 

drunken 
With  awful  joy  and  wonder! 
Thy  word,  unwritten,  so  may  we  read,  behold  Thy 

face  effulgent. 
Thou  brooding,  loving  Artist.  wKose  holiest  name  is 

Beauty. 


121 


1' 


\\ 


ii 


If 


GOD'S  EYRS 

Marie  : 

r  ATHER,  what  colour  are  God's  eyes? 

Father  : 

Guess,  sweetheart.    You  shall  have  three  tries. 

Marie  : 

Then  are  they  blue? 

Father  • 

Yes,  bluer  far 

Than  where  the  highest  heavens  are. 

Marie  : 

I  cannot  think  of  eyes  so  blue. 

Father  : 

God's  eyes  are  brown. 

Marie  : 

Father,  but  you 

Told  me  just  now  my  guess  was  true. 

Father  : 

Still,  sweetheart,  not  the  earthy  loam 

Is  brown  as  are  His  eyes,  the  home 

Of  russet,  sepia,  and  chrome. 

Marie  : 

Father,  I  do  not  understand. 

Father : 

God's  eyes  are  golden,  dear;  when  land 

And  sea  are  bathed  in  sunset  glow, 

And  holiness  seems  brooding  low. 

The  eyes  of  God  are  there  also; 

And  when  the  first  faint  violet  hue 

122 

Steals  tremblingly  the  petals  through 
Till  its  full  life  is  pulsing  new, 
The  flower  lifts  those  eyes  to  you. 
When  in  the  woods  the  drooping  day 
Watches  the  whirling  leaves  at  play, 
Then  well  we  wit  God's  eyes  are  gray; 
And,  sweetheart,  when  each  quiet  night 
You  fold  your  hands  so  sure  and  tight. 
And,  with  your  fresh  young  soul  alight, 
Tell  to  the  Father  every  mite. 
Those  all-seeing  eyes  are  purest  white. 

Marie :    Is  it  all  true  as  true  can  be? 

Father:    I  would  not  tease  you,  small  Marie! 

Nay,  you  must  watch  and  see,  dear  maid. 
When  next  the  bow  in  heaven  is  laid, 
God's  eyes  change  slow  from  shade  to  shade. 


123 


i 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY 


]■■■ 


{, 


i  *  ■ 


if 


B, 


BUTTERFLY,  butterfly. 
Flutter  by. 
Over  and  under  and  over, 
Flitting  from  lily  to  clover, 
Restless,  unsatisfied  rover! 
What  is  it  thou  dost  hunger  alter 

That  is  not  now,  yet  is  eternally  to  be — 
Sunshine  and  the  warm  sun-laughter 

Touching  into  glory  the  waving  wings  of  thee> 
Frail  insect,  mad-possessed 
Of  quenchless,  fruitless  quest, 
Patiently  brooding  the  loneliest  leaf. 
Searching  the  silentest  flower. 

Placing  the  hills  and  the  meadows  in  fief. 
Scorning  no  spot  of  the  arid  or  arable. 
Questing  for  aye  in  thy  life  of  an  hour, — 
Butterfly,  butterfly. 
Utter  thy  parable! 


Tireless  discoverer, 
Voyager  vagrant, 
Hopefullest  hoverer. 
Lured  by  the  fragrant; 
Ruthless  deserter  of  grapes  and  camellias. 
Yearning  to,  turning  from,  countless  Ophelias,- 


124 


Ir* 


i 


Urged  on  by  the  vision 
Of  wonder  supernal. 

To  autumn's  decision 
Referring  the  vernal; 

All  to  see,  all  to  see: 

Of  the  Past  the  history, 

Of  the  Last  the  mystery; 
For  brief  engrossing  moments  joying  in  the  real, 
Yet  swift  again  to  know  the  sting  of  the  ideal; 

Wary  of  Nature's  benison, 
(In  the  inmost  heart  of  thee  the  pang,  the  sting!) 

Of  this  demesne  no  denizen. 
No  captive,  but  an  age-appointed  Thing! 

Butterfly,  can  nothing  win  thee  into  rest,- 
No  petal  here  or  yonder?    .    .    . 

Nay,  flutter  by,  contcntless,  as  is  best,— 
While  with  thee  I  wander! 


;■! 


125 


11 

i 


LYRICS  OF  THE  RAIL 


I.    The  Scorned  Town 

THE  green  fields  waver,  break  a  space 
To  black  and  white  and  gray. — 
Men  standing,  staring  in  a  place 

That  quickly  dies  away; 
And  swift  again  on  left  and  right 

The  living,  slipping  green. 
What  was  that  black  and  gray  and 
A  phantom  never  seen! 


w 


hite? 


1 1 


\% 


i    X 

Ml 


II.    The  Canyon 
The  sky  withdraws,  the  cutting  narrows, 

A  vague  intention  fills  the  air; 
Still  past  the  window  stream  the  arrows 

Of  lifehc    .nd  darkiiess,  everywhere. 

A  moment,  and  the  battlers  waver; — 
Another,  and  the  night  has  won; 

Into  the  mountain's  dark  disfavour 
Plunges  the  train  at  set  of  sun. 

III.    The  Sleeping-Car 
The  land  is  silent,  and  the  moon 

Is  slowly  rising;  the  long  jar 
Of  wheels  on  rails  all  afternoon 

Is  past,  and  stars  and  stillness  are. 


126 


t 


As  from  the  darkness  of  the  couch 
I  turn  my  wakeful  eyes,  and  gaze 

Thro'  lonely  panes,  I  could  avouch 

That  earth  and  m.in,  and  nights  and  days. 

Are  lost  and  gained,  that  all  are  one: 
The  low-heard  sF>eeding  of  the  train. 

The  cloud-swept  moon,  the  stars  that  run. 
The  heart's  assumptions  and  its  pain. 


127 


■J 


It.  : 


i. 


I 


TEMPEST-TOST 

N  a  flash  the  rain  roars  down. 
Tearing  a  way  to  the  ground 
With  a  splashing,  unmusical  sound, 
With  a  quivering,  quick  rebound, — 

Striking  each  dusty  town 
Into  a  gloom  of  the  flood, 
Into  a  chill  of  the  blood, 

At  tie  ravenous  roar  of  the  rain. 

The  thunder  struggles  for  breath, 

Beaten  with  moanings  of  ire, 

Mad  with  a  rebel  desire, — 

Lightning,  its  heart  of  fire. 
Goads  it  to  desperate  death, — 

Fear  follows  everywhere. 

On  the  earth  and  the  sea  and  the  air, 
Forebodings  of  terror  and  pain. 


II 


1 


Then  the  voice  of  the  sea  outcries: — 
"AH  my  waves  have  in  anger  arisen. 
Scorning  my  bosom  a  prison. 
Lashing  me  while  I  listen 

To  the  prayer  as  of  one  who  dies : 
'O  Infinite  Love,  come  thou, 
Save  me  and  pilot  me  now!' 

And  straight  there  is  silence  again." 

128 


Low  earth-murmurs  kindle  and  loom. 
And  its  secrets  have  thickened  the  sky. 
Till  it  sweeps  them  before  the  fierce  eye 
Of  the  hurricane  hurrying  by. 

Clash  all  the  drivings  of  doom, — 
Storm!  and  the  world  in  collapse, — 
Despair!  were  it  not  that  jjerhaps 

There  's  a  whispering  promise-refrain. 


; 


129 


^'i 


\  I 


li 


i  1. 


1.1' 


IV. 


{\ 


K 


I! 


\v 


3   t' 


!      ( 


H 


HAMLET 

E  would  see  all,  this  thinker!    He  would  see 
The  lure  of  life,  the  deep  of  mystery; — 
He  sees,  and  he  is  silent:  Love  and  Hate 
Sink  into  nothing  while  he  stares  at  Fate. 


133 


:! 


fi 


ji 


A  GRACE  BEFORE  SHAKESPEARE 

("I  own  that  I  am  disposed  to  say  grace  upon  twenty  other  occasions  in 
the  course  of  the  day  besides  my  dinner.  I  want  a  form  for  setting  out  upon 
a  pleasant  walk,  for  a  moonlight  ramble,  for  a  friendly  meeting,  or  a  solved 
problem.  Why  have  we  none  for  books,  those  spiritual  repasts — a  grace  be- 
fore Milton — a  grace  before  Shakespeare — a  devotional  exercise  profjer  to 
be  read  before  reading  The  Faerie  Quecnef — Charles  Lamb:  K«i<ayg  of  Elia.) 

YY/EARY  and  wishful  of  the  woods,  we  hear 
^^      The  whispers  of  the  leaves  of  Arden  stealing 
Down  the  dull  ways  of  sense  with  "Better  cheer!" 

Or  strain  to  catch  a  sweet  and  tiny  pealing — 
The  elfin  bells  of  Puck  and  all  his  line. 

And  watch  the  lights  of  springtide  clearer  grow- 
ing. 
And  smell  the  violet  and  the  eglantine, 

In  love  with  Love,  and  fun  and  frolic  flowing. 
Darken  our  day-dreams,  and  the  air  strikes  chill, 

And  shadows  huge  and  formless  go  a-glooming. 
And  moments  are  when  Life  and  Death  stand  still 
Before  Lord  Fate's  inexorable  dooming; — 
Shakespeare,  or  murmuring  night  or  morning  song, 
Always  thyself  abideth,  calm  and  strong! 


I 


U\ 


134 


hi 


D 


TO  SHAKESPEARE'S  MOTHER 

ID  he,  madonna,  on  thy  bosom  turning, 
Look  in  thy  woman-eyes  and  see  soft  fires 
Glowing  and  melting,  passioning  and  yearning. 
Lit  with  the  mother-light  of  far  desires? 

O  did  he  fix  his  still  regard  upon  them. 

Learning  their  meanings  manifold  and  strange, 

Climbing  with  wonder  up  to  count  and  con  them 
Ere  they  should  vanish  and  the  moment  change? 

The  visions  that  thy  soul  revealed  him  then. 

Though  thou  hast  died,  madonna,  may  never  die: 

They  dwell  eternal  in  pure  Imogen, 

Cordelia's  truth  and  Desdemona's  sigh, 

Rosalind's  Arden,  Miranda's  island  wave. 

Girlish  Ophelia's  love,  and  Juliet's  grave. 


135 


TO  A  CLASS  IN  SHAKESPEARE 


!; 

If 


/^OSSIP  of  swains  befooled  by  fairy  charm, 
^^     With  wordy  riots  of  buffoon  and  clown. 

And  ripples  of  light  laughter  floating  down, — 
Mischief  and  Mirth  and  Music  arm  in  arm; 
Or  shadows  of  the  nightfall,  soul-alarm 
And  soul-despair,  Fate's  ever-fixed  frown. 
And  man's  high-hearted  struggle  lest  he  drown 
Under  the  rising  waves  of  wrong  and  harm; 

These  spirit-symbols  have  we  heard  and  seen, 
Treading  alike  the  meadows  and  the  blind 
And  labyrinthine  windings  long  and  dim; 
Danced  have  we  and  stood  doubtful,  yet  have  been 
As  those  that  think  the  better  of  their  kind 
Because   they  've  walked   together  and  with 
him. 


ii 


,H 


*?■ 


136 


ki 


I 


A 


TO  HARRIET  SHELLEY 

S  some  blithe  schooner  sailing  on  the  breast 
Of  ocean,  thrilled  by  the  sheer  voyaging, 
Heedless  that  wave  and  wind  must  hourly  bring 

Her  near  and  nearer  to  the  haven-rest ; — 

Yard-arms  akimbo,  carelessness  confest, 

Dancing  through  worlds  of  water,  white  of  wing 
And  light  of  heart; — finds  harbour,  wondering 

Where  now  the  roar,  the  rigour  and  the  zest; 

Creature  of  chance,  so  was  it  with  thy  life, 
Who  knew  not,  hardly  loved,  the  element 

Upbearing  thee,  but,  glad  to  be  a  wife. 

Took  little  thought  whither  the  compass  bent, — 

Crossing  the  troubled  deep  of  Shelley's  spirit. 

The  silent  Dark  thereafter  to  inherit  1 


137 


If 


TO  JOHN  KEATS 


fin  one  of  those  mental  voyages  into  the  past  which  precede  death. 
Keats  had  told  Severn  that  he  thought  "the  intensest  pleasure  he  had  re- 
ceived in  life  was  in  watching  the  growth  of  flowers."  and  onother  time,  after 
lying  a  while  quite  still,  he  murmured:  "I  feel  the  flowers  growing  over  me. "  — 

Lord  lluuylilun's  Mcniuir.) 

"OEVERN.  I  feel  the  flowers  o'er  me  ~  ow." 
*^    They  grow,  loved  boy. — the  daisico  drenched  with 
dew, 
Pale  sentries  of  the  Sleep  that  silenced  you; 
And  violets,  that  the  poet-password  know — 
Your  soul  to  theirs  gave  whisper  long  ago: 
In  all  that  Roman  garden  none  with  hue 
More  bright ;  and  many  a  clovered  avenue, 
Sweet  flower-forests  waving  to  and  fro. 

And  every  plant  in  that  so  holy  place 

Yearns  to  your  lyred  grave,  and  all  that  earth 
Bears  wheresoever  into  blossoming; 
And  every  seed  of  honour,  ruth,  and  grace 

Quickens  when  buried  there,  and  comes  to  birth. 
Greening  above  you  in  eternal  Spring. 


).( 


138 


TO  GEORGE  BORROW 

(Lavengro.) 

\T0  "book,"  but  your  own  heart,  was  written.  Borrow, 
•'■  ^      When  pen  and  paper  met, — that  heart  of  hope 
And  havoc,  Enghsh  pride  and  world-wide  sorrow; 

Here  on  a  breathless  page  two  rascals  cope. 
Or  here  the  Roman  gypsy  greets  us  smiling. 

True  to  his  tribe's  inscrutable  constraint: 
That  picture  fades,  and  Murtagh  moves  beguiling, 

Or  Belle  the  bold,  or  Winifred  the  saint; 
Down  to  Lavengro's  dingle  when  we  go 

We  go  down  also  into  melancholy. 
And  wrestle  through  the  night  with  nameless  woe, 

With  human  horror  and  eternal  folly. 
O  brood,  or  laugh,  or  rage  from  Thames  to  Tiber, — 
Knight  of  the  ancient  ruth  and  fearless  fibre! 


139 


PIPPA  AND  HER  FLOWERS 


II 

1: 


H 


"She  stoops  to  pick  my  double  heartsease.     .     .     .     "  —  Morn. 

"Lvcn  my  lily   s  asleep.  I  vow: 
\X'akp  up     h«TP  '»  a  frienrl  I    vf  plucked  you' 
Call  this  flower  a  heartsease  now!"  — Siyhl. 

—  I'ijipa  l'u.i.i(.i. 

ER  flowers?    The  martagon  flame-lily  glowing. 
And  heartsease,  dreaming  happiness  alway, — 
The  Trinity-of-Pippa.  she  and  they! 

Dawn!  and  the  heartsease  in  the  valley  blowing. 

And  gladness  in  a  girl's  young  soul  o'erflowing: 
Sings  she  a  welcome  to  her  Holiday, 
Teases  and  tends  her  lily,  laughing  gay, — 

Then  up  and  out  her  eager  feet  are  going. 

Think,  friend  of  mine,  that  little  figure  bending 
To  pluck  the  heartsease  for  her  lily  lonely, 

That  each  may  love  the  other  at  day's  ending, 
Shall  live  when  you  and  I  are  shadows  only; 

The  childlike  kindness  in  that  simple  deed 

Shames  into  silence  Death's  despairful  creed. 


i! 


140 


il 


"STORM  STILL" 
P\RENCHING  the  moors,  and   through   the  forest- 

*-^  gloo.TlS, 

While  thunder  booms. 

The  rain  is  roaring; 
With  Hghtning-glares  the  heavens  shiver, 
The  giant  branches  thrash  and  quiver. 

The  birds  go  scudding,  screaming,  soaring. 

For  Love,  for  Love  is  dead  and  gone  for  aye. 
So  all  things  say. — 

Yea,  all  things,  all  things, — 
While  with  fixed  eyes  and  arms  upraised  in  power 
An  old  mad  king  hurries  the  fatal  hour 

With  cries,  defiances  and  callings. 

Storm  still,  storm  ever,  until  the  day  is  done. 
And,  one  by  one, 

The  stars  are  shining: 
Though  Love  be  dead,  see  Love's  wan  ghost  ap- 
pearing. 
And  through  the  silent  Dark  her  pathway  clearing. 

On  bruised  and  baffled  Lear  declining! 


141 


I  .; 


^1' 


TO  THE  FRIENDLIEST  OF  POETS 


i  • 


ir 


ii.' 


CHAUCER,  kind  heart,  who  with  the  score  and  ten 
Laughed  your  long  way  through  Kent's  a-green- 
ing  fields. 
So  mild,  mj  gentleman!  yet  your  arch  pen 
Its  ancient  freshness  yields; 

Life  was  to  you  no  dreary  heaviness. 
No,  nor  a  fretting  puzzle  for  the  mind; 

You  saw  the  best  and  worst,  and  both  would  bless. 
For  both  were  of  mankind. 

The  "smale  fowles  "  lusty  would  be  singing. 
The  summoner  his  "stif  burdoun" would  bear. 

But  in  your  poet-soul  the  music  ringing 
Was  sure  the  sweetest  there. 

Maister  of  words,  and  lover  of  the  human. 
Refresh  us  ever  with  your  vernal  prime; 

A  tonic  draught  for  us,  or  man  or  woman — 
Your  frank  and  winsome  rhyme! 


142 


TO  MY  LORD  VERULAM 

"If  parts  allure  thee,  think  how  Bacon  shin'd. 
The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind  I" 

— Pope:  Essay  on  Man. 

V^F  mankind  meanest!"    Out  upon  the  pen 
^^    That  dared  malign  you,  good  my  lord,  so 
grossly. — 
A  little  soul,  that  stooped  his  lowest  then. 

With  formal  praise  to  mingle  blame  morosely, 
Ac  courtly  honour  sneering! 

Your  steady  conscience  those  may  read  that  run, 
Maugre  a  faithless  king  and  "raskall  rabble;" 

Your  life-truth  and  your  word-truth  were  as  one; — 
The  empty  man  is  known  by  empty  babble: 
The  wise  can  wait  a  hearing. 

The  hand  that  wrote  of  friendship,    and  the  heart 
That  Matthews  loved,  and  Rawley,  were  not 
strange; 
The  eloquences  of  your  lordly  art 

Had  in  your  bosom  first  their  ample  range, 
Their  high-bred  spirits  rearing. 

Thinker  profound  and  patient,  labourer  true 

Amid  the  turmoil  of  an  eager  time, — 
Not  without  fault,  yet  blameless — we  by  you 
Move  cheerlier  forward  to  the  golden  prime. 
The  way  more  sun  appearing. 
143 


"SJ 


:!1 


;k 


H:i 


TO  MASTER  HENRY  FIELDING 

r  FAITH,  good  Hal,  you  have  a  saucy  wit, 
•^     You  sober-smiling  magistrate  of  modes. 
And  yet,  I  swear.  I  like  the  way  of  it. 

Save  when,  of  course,  it  mocks  my  social  codes 
And  private  peccadilloes. 

And  what  a  brave  old  Bull  you  are,  my  Fielding, 

And  how  you  tear  and  toss  the  crimson  rags 
Of  "low"  and  "law,"  and  how  you  scorn  the  yield- 
ing 
To  critics  who,  unhorsed,  their  saddle-bags 
Must  use  in  lieu  of  pillows. 

They  're  left  to  brood  their  sins,  whilst  you,  im- 
patient. 
Like  Ocean  old,  to  change  the  figure  here, 
With  soul  as  free  as  that  of  any  ancient. 
And  sentences  a  trifle  mixed,  I  fear. 
Sweep  on  in  lofty  billows. 

Roguish  as  Puck,  and  now  benign  as  Brahma, 
Give  us  to  drink  from  out  your  generous  glass. 

Seer  and  lover  of  the  human  drama. 

Wisdom  and  cheer  through  all  the  way  we  pass 
From  storks  to  weeds  and  willows! 


144 


TO  MISS  JANE  AUSTEN 

l\yf  ADAM,  I  must  express  respectful  wonder 
^^^     At  your  delightful  novels,  penned  despite 
Your  unawareness  of  the  proper  thunder 
Employed  by  those  professionals  who  write 
For  present  generations. 


You  've  minor  merits;  we  have- -Miss  Corelli — 
She 's  in  "Who 's  Who"  and  so  is  Mistress  Ward; 

Your  heroines  are  bourgeoise  Liz  or  Nellie — 

Such  homely  English  hearts  you  seem  to  hoard. 
Untoned  by  foreign  nations. 


Your  canvas,  too,  is  very  small  and  shrinking — 
You  've  said  as  much   yourself — and   yet  you 
smile, 
Content  with  gentle  raillery,  not  thinking 
Of  what  you  ought  to  do — belabour  guile 
With  stageable  gyrations. 


Indeed,  dear  Madam  Jane,  the  eagle  wheeling, 
The  vulture  tearing,  e'en  the  owl  sedate. 

Or  brooding  hen, — such  modern  modes  of  feeling 
Are  foreign  to  you,  I  regret  to  state 
(With  mental  reservations). 


145 


I. 


\l\' 


So  mild  and  unobtrusive  seems  your  pleasure 
It  minds  us  rather  of  the  humming-bird, 

Sipping  and  skimming  to  a  patterned  measure, 
Within  an  ordered  park  of  way  and  word, 
'Mid  Spring's  felicitations. 

It 's  true,  of  course,  that  you  amused  Sir  Walter, 
Lewes,  Macaulay,  and  a  number  more. 

But  fashions  change.  Miss  Austen,  have  to  alter, — 
Your  glowworm  humour  now  is  ancient  lore, 
Barren  of  imitations. 

In  short,  although  we  like  you  still  extremely, 
It  's  not  the  thing  to  read  you  nowadays; 

If  only  you  had  been  a  bit  unseemly 

In  style,  or  bold  of  plot,  why  then  our  praise 
Might  still  perform  oblations. 

So  good-bye,  Madam;  we  must  leave  behind  us 
Your  wit  and  wisdom,  for  no  more  they  '11  do: 

We  must  progress,  the  publishers  remind  us — 
This  chat  was  pleasant,  but  it  means — adieu! — 
Our  people  are  creations. 


146 


14 


i0 


